Jessica Jones: Gimme Shelter
by PhilKurtis
Summary: Corrupt political forces set up Jess for a fall. But while Jessica Jones is easy to blame, she's hard to destroy. Especially if she lets herself trust again. Featuring Jessica Drew, P.I. (the original Spider-Woman) and Mattie Franklin (her successor), while Trish comes into her own as Hellcat. Time: post-Season 2, begininning just before the start of *Luke Cage 2*.
1. Ep 1: AKA Shooter Girl

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 1: AKA Shooter Girl**

* * *

[Jessica Jones – voice over:] _Not everyone lives happily ever after. It's just that no one wants to admit it._

 _Almost no one._

 _When you're the kind of person who does admit it – AKA Jessica Jones – everybody takes that as hostility, or insanity, or stupidity, or anything else that isn't simple reality. They don't want to know what's a sure thing, and what's just a bet. Or a lie._

 _So, when you've been forced to learn what I've learned – after being orphaned, tortured, kidnapped, raped, betrayed by friends, by family – you're not allowed to work through the reality of it. I'm supposed to just get over it with a magic thought._

 _And everybody's got to "help" me, let me know how much they care, in that TwitterFace "thoughts and prayers" way that is caring today._

 _They're all so blind they can't see that all of that is really all about them. Not me._

 _They want to believe in the world they want to live in, one where what I've seen isn't there. I don't mean the powered shit. I mean the cruelty. The depraved need to control. The way power doesn't just corrupt, it perverts._

 _I deal with my own shit. I never ask anybody else to deal with it. There are times when I just have to float through my life, let it keep unwinding around me, let it touch me, let it kiss me, and sting me, and cut me._

 _I keep the screams inside my head. I drink the screams down to whispers, and in the whispers, I hear ghosts. Mostly the ghost of Little Jessica. Mostly. But also Jessica Before Kilgrave. I loved them both, but they offer no remedies to Jessica Now._

 _And Jessica Now doesn't have the right answers for the rest of the world, mostly because it keeps asking the wrong questions. Everyone asking why things happened to me is only starving for an answer that means it could never happen to them._

 _I'm an investigator. I believe there are answers out there. I've found some in the past, and they've been ugly, sometimes horrifying. I don't expect anything better from the rest._

 _But if I take a break from finding them, everyone says I'm hiding._

 _I'm not hiding._

 _I'm getting ready._

 _Because one thing I know with every other breath I take from falling out of bed until I pass out early the next morning._

 _I will never live happily ever after._

* * *

"Fuck."

The girl standing next to her laughed.

"Seriously," Jessica Jones went on, rolling her shoulders within her oversize leather jacket. "Only in Hell's Kitchen would it get this chilly in September."

"I get that his wife wants this to hurt this guy's career," the girl said. "But why doesn't she just call a press conference and serve him these papers later?"

"The lawyer wants a full force stealth hit. Gotta nail this asshole with the papers before he has a clue what's coming." She shifted from foot to foot, then coughed. "Look, I know it's kinda crazy, Smithie. All part of some sort of 'roll-out' Foggy Nelson has planned for this. Freezing assets in Europe the minute I let him know this paper is served. Press release, nine AM tomorrow, and apparently Karen Page with _The Bulletin_ has a story ready and set to go live online at 8:55." She shrugged. "Lawyer games, what do I know?"

The girl glanced at her watch. "Five, ten minutes more, tops." Jessica grunted in response as she watched "Smithie" Matthews check the camera for the fifteenth time that hour. Smithie was a good kid, and Jess wished she had gotten enough sleep lately – or ever – to reward her star-struck, rented assistant with a little praise for diligence above and beyond what you usually got from a temp.

"Yeah, it's showtime," she said instead. She unfolded the process paperwork and held it up, moving around the girl so the light from the camera wouldn't shine out of the alleyway – much. "You got this?"

The girl stared through the Canon Rebel digital, nodding. It was cupped in both hands. Jones admired how steady her aide-for-the-day kept it. Smithie had slid her John Lennon wire frame glasses up onto her forehead to clear the way for full attention into the lens. She was five-five, one-seventy, maybe one-seventy-five, a sturdy little fireplug with ebony skin and a wild shock of red-streaked curly black hair.

Jessica straightened herself her own lean frame. Her face was shadowed by Goth black hair, curled around sharp cheekbones and naturally bright red lips that she now pointed at. "Okay, here first, then down to the paper. You'll know when."

The camera tilted up slightly, Smithie so quiet it might be an actual film set.

"I'm Jessica Jones of Alias Investigations," the detective began. She rattled off her New York private investigator's license number. She gave the date, glanced at her watch and read the time, emphasizing "according to my watch," then added: "There's a date and time stamp on the film. I've instructed that the camera continue recording as papers are served."

"The camera operator, that name will be available, and you can contact her through me and me only," She shifted on her feet, not really aware of how steel took her eyes, though Smithie noticed and was thrilled. "And that's only if and when any shit-heaaa – yeah, um, sorry, Nelson, I'll keep it clean. Litigant. Any litigant seriously contests service, then the camera operator will be ID'ed if you ask me right."

She tapped the paper facing the camera, which Smithie duly lowered for focus. "Service of these papers." She mouthed _zoom_ but it was clear Smithie was already doing that, scanning them to make it clear what Jess had in her hand. She waited a breath, then whispered. "Good."

Around the edges of the camera, Jess watched the girl's mouth turn up at the corners, her forehead crinkled with pleasure, and saw deft fingers dial back on the focus. She shrugged into the camera's view. "And seriously, dude, you don't want to ask. Trust me. Anyway, you'll have a helluva lot more to worry about, assho – ah – as we shall now see."

Smithie kept the focus on Jessica as she went around her. The PI moved across the street, keeping the paperwork visible for the camera, glancing with every other step, double tapping her gaze on the lit window three stories up. Her look grazed over a "Keaton for Mayor" poster and she chuckled. Since the guy three stories up had his eyes on that prize, she wondered if she ought to bill Keaton for this. But then again, Foggy Nelson was paying her plenty.

And she had put in the work. She had the timing down, thanks to four weeks of on-again, off-again surveillance.

She knew Congressman Regent "Reggie" Halberstam III's standing appointment for two hours of "dinner" was almost over. The only time the people's servant traveled sans entourage was to visit the "restaurant" upstairs, his trust fund billed for goods and services from "Manhattan Ribeye". Unremarkable, discreet, and respectable.

 _And then there's Amber Emerald, as real a name as you could ever hope to run into,_ Jess thought, rolling her eyes. But in truth, she had nothing (else) against the FSSW upstairs. She figured Amber was just trying to eat on the regular and she could pick up a few nice things along the way as well, just by fucking the congressman. It was the congressman Jess despised, because being a congressman, she figured, meant fucking people on the regular was how he managed to eat in all the most expensive places.

This was her chance to hit him with Foggy's papers without the interference or "chatter" that Nelson wanted to avoid in this phase of his litigation rollout.

She rounded the front of the car and folded the paperwork smoothly under his windshield. Without breaking stride, she moved on down the street, away from the car, the alley, the whole thing, with a quick but casual lope, glancing over her shoulder. She was just a young woman sensibly eager to get off the streets of New York at this hour – so far as the casual observer would note.

Just for those two hours upstairs, Halberstam was paying Amber Diamond twice the amount Jess was earning to serve him with divorce papers after four weeks of surveillance, research and planning.

And Ms. Diamond wasn't even why his wife was divorcing him. That was a bonus, picked up when looking for a way through the cloud of drivers and aides and security and lobbyists that surrounded Old Money Times Three – except for this. For his one big secret, and only then, he traveled solo.

 _Nelson is gonna love the final report._

She circled fast around the corner, gave the streets a quick once over when she hit a shadow heavy dead spot, then leaped silently up to the roof. Making her way to the edge, she waited. Her eyes narrowed, focusing hard into the night when a something glint-sliver flashed on the rooftop across the street, two buildings down. Unconsciously, she began moving toward the other side of the roof when she heard the door open down at street level.

Halberstam ambled down the steps, down to his car, staring at first, then snatching up the papers, and reading, visibly beginning to fume. He snapped the door open, threw himself into his car, and burned down the avenue.

Jessica made the jump back to the other side of the street, then hopped from the roof down to the pavement, circling into the back end of the alley. She came up behind Smithie, who was pressed back in the shadows, reviewing the video silently in a little window on the camera.

"Hey."

The girl jumped, squaring off, eyes wide but fists clenched.

"Relax," Jess forced herself to smile. "It's just me." She nodded at the camera. "So … we good?"

Smithie hesitated, causing Jones' heartbeat to catch, until the girl handed the Canon to her, nodding, clicking the video on for Jess to check out in the view screen. "It's perfect," she said, pride peeking through the clipped tones. "We could go back to your office, work on the sound, if you want?"

Only then did it hit the PI the girl had hesitated because she didn't want the job to end.

She remembered their chat when the temp agency had sent her over. Nineteen, film student, City College, straight-A's (who attaches their transcript for a temp job?), a bit over-qualified really.

Impression? Bright, working class girl making her way through school doing odd jobs for Petit Temps, Inc., better really than the pay, but then most of the country was better than what they were paid, outside of Congress.

Goddamn all that post-Kilgrave bullshit press.

Smithie had done nothing from the interview to now but ooze fan girl awe. Well, that and perform a super-competent job at keeping out of Jess' way while still getting the work done. It was like she knew what Jess was thinking before she had thought it.

The least she could do, Jones decided, was toss the kid a little interest. She reached to her as tentatively as if about to stroke a tiger but at the last moment just popped a fist very lightly off her shoulder, like a … _pal? Or protégé?_

 _Or whatever gets me out of this without being an asshole._

She handed her the camera back. "You do hella good work, Smithie."

"You ran this smooth as a _dook_ ," the girl beamed. "You had it timed out tight."

Jess twisted her head with a wry smile. "I try."

"Try? That shit was lit."

"Watch your language."

"Really?"

"Fuck, yeah."

"But you –"

"You don't want to grow up to be me. Trust me."

The girl laughed. "I'm grown."

 _Sweetie, you're a victim waiting to happen._ " So, listen, Matthews. You never said. What's up with 'Smithie'? I mean, usually that little prize of a nickname is reserved for, you know, Smiths." She tilted her head, indicating they should walk out of the alley and find a cab. _My treat,_ Jess thought.

"Light-smith," the girl whispered. "Joke was I'm 'The Light-smith', like it's my super-power. I'm supposed to be good with light. Thinking cinematography may be my ticket."

"Ticket?"

Jessica looked down at her cell phone, punching in Foggy's number and texting _{Goose on the spit}_ while rolling her eyes at his goofy code phrase. _Just glad he didn't insist we do this in Punjabi._

"I wanna direct, eventually, if …." Smithie's voice trailed off. "Did you see that? Up there, like a flash, or, like the moon caught glass or something? Hey!" Jess looked up to see the girl staring at – it seemed – her right ear. "That's …" The assistant held up her own hand, staring at a red dot landing on her finger from a beam coming through the PI's hair.

Jones shoved her to one side, pushing herself back, as air zipped past her ear. A split-second later something split into the brick just beyond them and the side of the building cracked in a web pattern around the brand-new hole.

In the next second Jessica was on top of Smithie, covering her while rolling her back so they were using a car as a shield. Mentally, Jones was cuss-churning her headspace into blue haze, her glare seeing red, but her lips was lined tight, her palm curled over the girl's mouth.

Silence. Smithie made a slight gulp-gasp and began shaking.

"You're safe," Jessica whispered. "Shooter Boy up there is the one who needs to start worrying." She moved double-speed, ripping off the rear passenger door off the car on her way to a deliberately lop-sided jump that curved her leap onto the rooftop next to the one she'd seen the glint come from earlier. She figured the shooter would assume an arc directly toward the gun, not a side-slip.

She was rewarded with a shot whizzing by wide of its mark. She felt this shot's air blast rather than heard it. Something very loud was roaring just past and below her.

She hit the roof running but pulled up short to scan the black clad figure on the next roof. Sleek, leather body armor over a tight form. With curves, short dark hair and a strong feminine face.

"Okay, clearly, I'm not proud of assuming you were a shooter _boy_ ," Jess muttered, then flung the door straight at her, velocity maxed by her strength.

She smirked as the door smacked into her assailant hard on the left side, sending her stumbling back, the rifle clattering down before the woman collapsed on top.

It was a short hop for Jess to make that roof, but as she did the shooter scooped up the gun, turned and made the edge of the roof in long strides.

 _That's some good body armor._ Jess ran desperately fast, hands bladed.

The shooter jumped.

Jones pulled up just at the lip of the roof, staring as her assailant landed on a Quinjet hovering below, rolling from a wing into an open topside hatch set just against the fuselage. The hatch closed, the jet kick-fired its engines, and then it was gone.

She kicked a heating / AC unit, denting it, steam gusting out a vent. It took three deep breaths to slow her heartbeat, and four or five more heartbeats before it truly sunk in with her what the black-and- grey eagle symbol on the jet's wings said.

S.H.I.E.L.D.

* * *

"I like her."

It brought all conversation to a stop. The room was muffled, leaving nothing to hear, and as dark as the room was, there wasn't much to look at either.

"You don't think," someone ventured, a uni-browed behemoth, "the bitch could be a problem?"

A laugh answered. "I don't think she's a bitch, to start with, John. Hardly. Charming girl, more of a kitten, surely." The speaker leaned forward now, elbows on the table, but his eyes cloaked. Close cropped blond hair above a lean, clean face. "I like her," he repeated. "I find her antics … amusing."

The uni-brow fumed. "You know, Viktor thinks this is your play to squeeze him. After he didn't sign you up to the team."

"And I just want to say," Turk Barrett put in, shoving from the wall to move toward the long table, stepping warily, eyeing each of the nine men there. "Bitch, kitten, whatever, cost me major jack tonight busting up that deal. Viktor's expecting me to show up with payment for that product, and if the best I got is 'hey, no worries, I'll find this girl and beat it out of her,' I'm still gonna be sweating blood. Orlov's hard core." He blanched at the blond's chill blue eyes as they seized his stare.

"Nobody touches her," he told Turk. "I'll settle the accounts."

"Why should we settle for anything but sticking her in a goddamn sack with a load of bricks and dumping her in the Hudson like a kitten we never wanted born?" uni-brow said, emboldened by Turk's sputtering defiance. "This woman has broken up – what?" He looked around the table. "Three, four deals now? Out of nowhere. Nobody seems to have heard of her until a few weeks back. I'd give fifty large for just a peek under that damn ski mask she wears."

A fourth man, young, lean, hungry looking, chimed in. "Hell, I'd give twice that just for a peek under that outfit of hers. Great ass, that bitch. What is that she wears, anyways, like some kinda track suit shit? But I tell you who I really wanna fuck, that new spidey chick! I seen her couple of times, once up close. Damn, that ass is tight."

"Denny Haynes, isn't it?" The blond man's head swiveled to stare him down with preternatural grace. "That kind of talk does not dignify this meeting, Mr. Haynes. I'm here for one reason, which is to stress that we don't want more noise on the streets right now. We need things calmed down, ramping up. Three, four, deals lost? Small beer, gentlemen. Doesn't matter."

"Easy for you to say," a fifth man muttered. "I got three bitches on the side who like living high."

The blond sighed, ignoring him, then raised a briefcase to the table. He slid it to the middle. "Turk, take Viktor's loss out of that. The rest of you take one eighth each. You'll find it covers your losses. With interest for your troubles." He leaned back, eyeing the ceiling. "I realize that's higher math for you creatures, but let's try extra hard not to cheat, eh?"

The fifth man bristled. "Who says John or Turk lost the same as me? It's for damn sure, ain't nobody lost less. And why you doing this, anyway?"

"Your losses are covered with your cut of the pie," he replied. "If I'm generous to the others, it costs you nothing. If you complain, it annoys me."

John spoke up again. "Just sayin', Orlov's gonna have a problem with anything here what don't involve taking out the cat lady."

"Then Orlov is a problem," the blond man shrugged. "But he's my problem." He thought a moment, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. "In the meantime - you're all getting paid, but if you want, I'll discuss it some more?"

As everyone moved at once to dive into the cash, he muttered to himself. "Forgot who I was talking to."

He let them feed from the briefcase, spitting words at one another from time to time, until they stepped back, some moving toward the door. "And you're welcome," he said acidly, causing even these miscreants to recall some manners and turn to say goodbye. "Well – except for you, John. I'm afraid you're no longer welcome in any way."

Uni-browed John tilted his head.

The blond man chuckled. "You're walking off a little heavier in the pocket then the others."

John looked around, a heated picture of offense taken. "What? What the hell you talking about, man. Look, fellas, you wanna count, let's dump it all back on the table and count."

"Or they can just wait and count yours," the blond said.

"Wait for what?"

"For me to drop you. Say hello to my father when you finish the fall."

"You are just bat shit crazy, blondie." John took a step toward him, pointing, but when he opened his mouth again, nothing came out. He pulled his hand back, gripping his neck, then squeezed with both hands desperately trying to force his throat to take down air. His eyes began to bulge. He hit the floor on his knees, then flew back like a mule had kicked his chest, laying stock still.

The others stood in place, eyes wide and fixed on the blond man. "You'll find that he managed to secrete a few extra hundreds in his pockets," he told them. "Divide evenly. Consider his example as you weigh those terms."

He was almost at the door when Turk stopped him, hand on his arm. "Like that? You what, Vader-ed him? Viktor said I had to take this meet, but, man, who the hell are you?"

"Daimon Hellstrom," he replied. "Not at your service."

"And _what_ the hell are you?"

The answering smile made Turk step back. "What in Hell, indeed?" Daimon brushed past and was out the door.

The others watched quietly until Turk muttered. "Is it just me, or did it just get cold as a motherfucker in here?"

* * *

Jessica yanked her MetroCard from her jacket pocket as the bus rolled to a stop. She boarded, a wooden Smithie following dutifully behind, and ran the card through the slot while unnecessarily calling out "Midtown / West 39th" to the driver. She glanced at the scattered others on the bus.

 _No fucking way S.H.I.E.L.D. took a shot at me. I mean: why? Had to be a false flag. Hydra painted a Quinjet and came at me._ _Fuck it, I'm using that Avengers addy, see what they know._

Hydra resources and manpower such as it was, their allies still out there - even in their debilitated state it wasn't beyond reach to have people on the buses running through this neighborhood. She was certain no one who might have been waiting on board could have missed her announced destination.

It was after they slid into place that her temp assistant whispered, "Midtown at West 39th? We're taking the water taxi?"

Jones rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, unconsciously tapping her boot on the floor. "Just follow me when I move," she said. "We're getting off before then. But fast. Last second. So, stay ready and then glance back, see if anybody jumps up to follow us."

Smithie turned a glassy gaze on her. "Okay."

Jess leaned forward, taking her hands briefly between her own. She forced a smile. "We're safe. We're fine. I'm just teaching you how to do a quick-and-dirty cleaning run, all right?" She yanked out Chapstick and ran it over her lips.

The girl raised an eyebrow and nodded. Quietly, heads together, Jessica walked her through everything they'd done since the shot and had her say out loud how it insured that anyone following them would have failed. "So, there's only a problem if there's someone on the bus, or waiting outside, and I'm going to walk you right past that."

Smithie swallowed and nodded again.

"Hey, you're good at this," Jess told her, trying to lighten her mood. "Filming people without them knowing it, I mean."

"They use me to shoot street dailies," Smithie said, voice still sounding detached. "Acting students go out for a day and pretend to be something totally different than who they are. I film it for the profs to critique."

Jessica frowned. "Weird homework."

The student shrugged. "They call it Bunburying. Like the play? _The Importance of Being Earnest?"_

Jessica's mind was already drifting. That S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle on the Quinjet meant Jess had no idea what was underway or what resources were committed to it. She wanted space, and the comfort of a thought-out plan. _The hell does S.H.I.E.L.D. care about Congressman Day-School Flab-Dick and his two-hour girlfriend? They're weren't seriously just gunning just for me … right?_

She tapped Smithie's arm with her knuckles as they went past a corner FedEx, on to the Uptight Citizen's Brigade Theatre. "Next station," she muttered. "Just past 42nd here."

Jess waited until the last second to rise and move for the door, snapping for it to be held open. The driver glanced at her and shrugged.

"You see anybody bolt up and try to follow us?" Jones asked Smithie right after they hit the pavement. She shook her head. "Okay, drop back a space or two and follow me so I can turn now and then to talk to you." Smithie nodded and fell back three steps.

Jones paced down to 11th and West 42nd. She took a hard turn left, whirling to note anybody on the street – _not many, good_ – and then moved up to 10th Avenue, pausing to call something meaningless back to the assistant – _nobody following, good –_ before picking up her step for the three and a half blocks left to reach her street.

She didn't relax once she had them both upstairs and inside her Alias Investigations office / apartment. She did relax – minutely – when she yanked the bottle of Tin Cup off her desk and took several deep swallows, fire draining down her throat, then licking up from her belly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her fist, pausing when she saw Smithie staring at her, then looked away, clapping the bottle back atop the desk.

"That?" She pointed at the bottle. "Is how I unwind. And I unwind hard. You? Don't get any bad ideas."

Smithie smiled. "You don't recommend it for taking the edge off, I guess?"

"All I'm saying," Jessica shifted from foot to foot, rolling her shoulders, not quite looking at the girl. "Do not turn into me."

"You keep saying." Smithie didn't stop smiling, eyes shining. "But you're my –"

"And do not use the H word." Jess snapped. She softened her tone. "It's just a …. Like a rule. Okay?"

"Okay."

"So, like I said," she went on. "This guy and his kid are totally cool, 'k? Their apartment is just up the stairs. And I'd feel better with you nearby, because that shit tonight, that ain't normal. Even for me. And – and I'm gonna stop _anding_ out more anxiety. Now. So …."

"I could …" Smithie gestured at the couch.

"I said nearby, not right where somebody might toss a grenade," Jess answered dryly, then quickly added as the girl's eyes widened. "Not that anybody's going to do that. The worst that's ever happened is once somebody shot at me through that window there, so … this isn't helping your nerves at all, is it?"

"I'm betting you kicked his ass."

"Cheng?" Jess tossed her head back and forth as if having the admission dragged out of her. "I might have thrown him through a glass door headfirst. Before he shot me. But he had it coming." She dipped her chin. "Anyway, Oscar, upstairs, he kinda sat with me a few dark nights around then. Seriously, he's a good guy."

Smithie squared her shoulders, chin up. "I can handle myself. And anyway – I trust you."

 _Yeah, wish that ever worked out for anyone._ But Jones nodded slowly, then forced a smile she hoped avoided the jitters the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle – which she hadn't mentioned – kept tickling through her gut.

"I trust Oscar," she said. "Let's go. You'll like the kid."

* * *

"Luke?"

Claire Temple frowned toward the living room, staring past it as if she could see the front door. "Luke?" she repeated, louder, working his hard-muscled arm with her elbow. "You hear that?"

He muttered something. Something incoherent, but to be fair, it was also something not at all awake, so … yeah, incoherent. He'd slept five hours, tops, the past three days. And it still took a lot to get him to sleep tonight, not that she minded. A smile flitted over her face, as she swung her feet to the floor.

Another thump on the door returned the frown.

She padded past the bedroom's outer wall, reaching shoulder high to a cradle on the wall and sliding free a _hanbo_ – a stout bamboo half-pole. A little gift from Colleen Wing. Claire ran the smooth surface over her left palm. Stilled her breathing. Probably nothing, she thought. The neighbor's cat again. But she trained with Colleen for a reason. Hell, she'd even started calling the younger woman "sensei."

She moved toward the front door, slowly, freezing as a third _thump!_ landed against it with a feminine grunt, and something solid but not blunt could be heard sliding down the length. The nurse in Claire went on high alert.

She took one side of the doorway, leaning over to expose as little of herself as possible to the door's surface, and peered through the security eye. The sound of a body elbowing up the door again ended as mussed mop of blonde hair came into view. A woman's chin tilted up, and –

Claire dropped the _hanbo_ and yanked the chain free, then ran through the latches and locks quickly, pulling the door open while stepping inside the arch to catch her. "Trish? Jesus! What happened?"

The other woman gripped her elbows as Claire pulled her gently inside, checking behind her. Heeling the door closed, she managed Trish Walker to a couch, laying her down easily. She worked Trish's light weight jacket open, scouring her form for wounds. "Who did this to you?"

"M'kay," she murmured, the release of tension like a fog lifting away now. "Just couldn't get a cab home."

"In New York?"

The other woman shrugged. "Can I crash on this couch for the night?"

"You already crashed on my door, Trish. Let's check on that wound first." Walker curled up where Claire's hand pressed at her belly. "Thought so." Blood. The nurse reached over, flipped on a table lamp. "What did – damn, honey, were you shot?"

Trish shook her head way too slowly. "I'm fine. Just – got cut."

Claire had already retrieved her stash of supplies. Right now: scissors. "Well, we're cutting this – this –" she leaned back, frowning down at the midnight blue unitard Trish wore under gym shorts. "Whatever this get up is." She worked the fabric back and away from the bloodied area and sighed with relief. "Not bad," she muttered, and went to work disinfecting the area.

"So, I can crash here?"

"This needs stitches."

Trish finally opened her eyes. Wide. "No. No ER. No hospital."

"Well, that's where the good stuff is."

"I know you do things a lot more complicated than stitches for … others."

"Because they need to be under the radar, Trish, you –"

"C'mon, you know what a shit storm circus it is any time 'Patsy Walker' walks her 'cray cray' into a hospital. Thirty seconds and some bored desk clerk will have the paps all over my ass, Claire." Pleading blue eyes stared up from an exhausted face.

Noting her pupils were normal, Claire sighed. "All right. But even with the local I've got, this is gonna hurt."

She went to work, made sure she was done, before she spoke, not wanting to agitate Trish's breathing. Even then, she kept her voice neutral as she asked, "So how'd this happen?"

"Accident."

"Yeah, in aerobics class?"

Trish frowned, puzzled.

Claire named her reference. "The outfit."

"Oh," Trish said. "That's for … parkour. I've been doing parkour." She stared over Claire's shoulder. "You know, to stay in shape."

"You move on from that, what was it, _krav maga?"_ Luke Cage asked. "Heard you got pretty damn good at that." Both women looked at the doorway where he'd stopped, jeans and a pale-yellow tee-shirt pulled on. The massive muscle wall of a man moved into the living room, staring at Claire's handiwork, then retreated to the bedroom. "Hang on."

"Parkour?" Claire said skeptically.

"Yeah, and, um – fell, and there was a, a pokey thing –"

"Pokey." Claire ran her palm over the wound, a few inches above. "That's a knife slash," she said quietly. "Who attacked you?"

"Here," Luke called out as he came back in. He tossed a tee-shirt to Claire. "You might want to cover up," he said to Trish. "I'll, uh – yeah. I'm a …." He ran a thumb over his chin, and backed into the bedroom, tossing over his shoulder, "Let you do that."

Trish pushed herself upright, taking the tee from Claire, and smiled for the first time since coming through the door. She arched an eyebrow, looking at Claire.

"Yeah," the nurse grinned. "Luke likes yellow. He's got twenty tee-shirts and eighteen are yellow."

"It's a good shade. I like it." Walker slid the tee-shirt over her now tattered clothing, feeling like she'd slipped into a tent. "And it's big. Well … duh." She nodded toward the bedroom and called out. "Hey, thanks, Luke! I'm decent now."

Claire leaned back. "So. Parkour. Slipped. Pointy thing." She folded her arms. "Really?"

"Okay, so what's going on?" Luke asked, once again having moved his battleship weight smooth as a schooner into the room.

"Somebody attacked Trish. Slashed her."

"What?" His body lost all semblance of sleep, and instinctively he glared as if he could see through the door. "Who?"

"Nobody!" Trish snapped, then gasped, folding a palm over her wound. She looked at Claire. "I told you. I fell."

The nurse lifted her hand and began fixing a bandage over the wound. "Yeah. Down the stairs? Into the edge of a door? Tripped on a toy? Which one? We had a checklist at the ER for domestic violence victims, so they could mark their favorite cover-up and –"

"Woah-woah-woah!" Trish tried to go fully upright, only to sink back into the cushions with a groan. She took a few shallow breaths. "Trust me, it's not that. I'm not even dating, let alone -"

"Okay," Luke said. "So, it's something else you're not telling us."

Walker's gaze shifted back and forth at the united front facing her. "Yeah, you know what, Claire, I really do appreciate you fixing me up," she said with full sincerity. "I'll stop by, drop off some supplies to replace –"

"You're staying the night," Claire said, pulling off Trish's sneakers and tossing them to the floor. "I didn't see signs of a lot of blood loss but no way you're walking out that door right now." She hesitated, hand hovering over a brown plastic, white capped bottle.

"It's okay," Trish said. "I'm not …. I'm clean, Claire. But if you're worried, hey, a couple of aspirin, and I'll see you in the morning."

"For what it's worth, you don't look high. You look hurt." The nurse peeled a long glance off the now bandaged wound while she uncapped the bottle top, tapping a pill into her palm. "Here," she said. "It'll help you rest. Not quite Vicodin, but a bit stronger than aspirin."

For an ex-talk show host, Trish went quiet fast; the ex-child star looking suddenly like her younger _It's Patsy_ child-star self, as pain left her. She began to snore.

Luke's hand fell on Claire's shoulder. She covered it with her palm. "Hey," she said softly. "I gotta stay up with her, just in case."

"I know," he said, kissing her ear, then sliding into the nearest chair. "I came out to stay up with you." She smiled and was still smiling when Luke inevitably began to snore as well.

 _Night Nurse,_ she thought.

* * *

The man who stared across the desk top was grizzled, his dirty blond hair close cropped, his bearing military. "I'm doing all the work and the best they can send me is a flunky?"

"Mr. Orlov," Connor O'Malley replied mildly, "I have the complete confidence and authority of your client. I've worked closely with him since –"

Smiling at how high-pitched O'Malley's voice was – given that he was a Mack truck of a man - Orlov waved his hand. "I know who you are."

O'Malley nodded. "Then please accept that this comes from him. Your weapons sales have gone well, but they're spreading a bit wide. We need them sold specifically to freaks. People need to identify the danger of these weapons with the powereds on the street."

"The profit levels –"

"Don't matter. You'll continue to be compensated well, as agreed, by our friend with the deep pockets." O'Malley leaned forward, a haze of lethality uncoiling around him. "One other thing. The weapons need to be in Hell's Kitchen. You started well in that regard, but we need to stay focused on Hell's Kitchen."

"What do you have against Hell's Kitchen?"

"Nothing," O'Malley said. "But there are people there who need to be agitated privately into become known as agitators publicly."

Orlov stared, then burst into laughter. "My friend," he sneered, "you'll find your life much easier when you Americans are finally doing politics the way we do politics. But –" he shrugged. "Tell your boss the message has been received."

He watched O'Malley leave, waiting a bit, then buzzed an old intercom of his desk. "Send the weirdo in," he said.

The man who entered was an impossibly handsome Scandinavian who hummed lightly as he approached the desk. "I heard that," he said flatly. "But then I was meant to, yes?"

"I appreciate your compensating me for the losses caused by this cat lady. But what further business could we have?"

"The cat is forgiven then?"

"Why not?" He shrugged. "Anything else?"

"We should establish a friendship first — then business," the blond smiled. He extended his hand, which the Russian took begrudgingly. Orlov flinched as a bolt of cold shot through him, leaving a burning sensation at the pulse in his wrist that faded quickly. "I'm new in the neighborhood – just like to meet all the players."

"You've met me. Anything else for now?" Orlov repeated with an edge.

Hellstrom took an unoffered chair.

"Perhaps, then, I could meet Mr. Lukin?"

"Who?"

"The reclusive Mr. Lukin. Sparing with photo opportunities, but not his money. Not when it comes to weapons sales. And mayoral campaigns, I hear?"

Orlov was already pointing at the door. "I don't have time to talk about men I've never met."

"Well." The blond stood, smiling amiably, and shoved his card over the desk. "If you should happen to encounter him, it would be in his best interest to contact me."

* * *

Jessica got up from her desk, stretched, and went to the window behind, the neck of the Tin Cup bottle in her fist. She stared down five stories to the street, watching cars pass through the less congested traffic of 2 AM.

"Damn, he looked good," she muttered. Oscar had blinked sleep from his eyes, swept a hand through that thick dark hair, and with a four AM burr in his voice, taken in a complete stranger for – _what?_

 _What reason?_

 _I mean, I just show up, middle of the night, 'hey, trust me, she's cool, she just needs a safe place to crash for the night,' and he just, what, just – just - does it?_

She shook her head, swigged twice at the bottle, rattled around the drops left at the bottom. Sat down, staring at the scattered papers, the computer screen. "Anyway …" she muttered, tapping the keys of her laptop. She pulled up CompuSketch. She started working on the face of the woman who – _took a SHOT at me tonight_ – but couldn't shake the picture in her mind of Oscar's face, chiseled, with kind eyes, looking down at her, not looking down on her.

Trusting her. Just taking that very sleepy, sweetly skittish college kid into his apartment, well aware Jess wanted her stashed there for a reason that could not be particularly comforting.

 _Focus._

She thought about taking a break and pursuing her little self-training exercise of finding all the info she could on the men making production decisions for the DCEU. Suicidal dysfunction ripping apart something beautiful fascinated her, and she didn't miss the irony in that. A screen she flashed past was red with blue lettering –

"And there it is again," she sighed. A sickly violet glow seemed to fill her mind, tendrils snaking through parts of her brain that began to throb with pain.

The voice twisting this vapor together in her memories was silken, English, and presumptively possessive. "How can he trust you, Jessica?"

And then came that damned cocky chuckle of – _his. That one._

 _Main Street._ She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, staring intently at the barely begun sketch of "Shooter Girl," as she thought of her now.

"Shut up," she told the voice. "You're dead, remember?" _Main Street, and …._

Few accents mock as well as that of the English. "And does your smitten janitor know he'll die next? Or perhaps this – Smithie? Is it?" A tongue clucked, dry and rasping. "She's so so young and oh so convinced you can save anyone, when you can't even save yourself."

 _Birch Street._ She shoved her chair back, folding her hands over her stomach. "Leave her out of this. And Oscar's not a 'janitor', he's the building super, and a damned good artist on the side. He's got a show coming up –"

"We always do, though, don't we? Anyone who gets close to you. We all die."

"You only wish you'd been close to me, you asshole." Her eyes strayed to the now empty Tin Cup bottle. _Higgins Drive._

"Didn't get close to you, Jessica?" that voice laughed. "I was inside you, you silly little girl. Again. And again. And … oh, my, how many times? Amazing how one can forget even the most unforgettable fucks."

"Don't flatter yourself, Kilgrave. I've been fucked more memorably by the State of New York on my licensing fees." She tilted her head, muttering, "Jesus, just when I find a way to make Pryce Cheng pay those next time around, Kilgrave shows up."

"Oh, now, Jess-i-caaa," the voice smarmed. "Comparing those screams of passion I compelled from you to your feeling resentment of bureaucrats? I'm hurt. And here I died just for wanting to be near you, as anyone must expect, it seems." He sighed. "Really should tell Smithie. And Oscar. And dare I say, Vido? Hardly 'spoilers', at this point. And it obviously isn't dead old me, face it, Jess – it's you. I mean the dead dropped 'round you after I was gone, so QED, eh?"

 _Humbolt … no, not Humbolt. Colon … Co – shit! What is it? "_ You finished?"

He was never finished. "Sorry about your mum, by the way, Jess. Would love to have met her, although that would have meant she was around you earlier. And therefore she would have died sooner. Though maybe not at the hands of your bestie Trish. And how is sister Trish, Jessica? Ah, lips so sweet, that one. Still close to you? Or does _she_ at least have a chance to live a full life?"

Jess dug through a desk drawer, found a pint of Maker's Mark, loosened the cap, and tilted the lip of the bottle to her mouth. "Okay, we're done here, asshat."

Screeching tires and a yelp she could hear all the way up to her office made her stop before she got even a sip. She swung unsteadily to the big window frame behind her. Confused a moment, staring down, she suddenly saw the source of the cry.

A wiry golden cat, an Abyssinian, was trying right itself on the street, failing with a series of flops in the midst of a lack of traffic that wouldn't last more than a few breaths. Another car scooted to a stop but still sent the cat rolling. Not that anybody got out to check on it. Or move it. Just went around it. Not their problem.

 _More cars coming._

 _Shit._

She was out of the window, onto the landing, and then down in a guided fall, stumbling through a running drop to scoop up the elegant Abyssinian breed's body. Clutching it to her belly, she ignored blaring horns and made it to the sidewalk.

Finishing her dash by turning to lean against the wall, she looked the animal over. She ran her hands over it, finding no blood in the matted, dirty fur. With any luck, she (it was a she) was just stunned. There was not a lot of speed built up by cars on her street, even this early in the morning. Still, she whimpered whenever Jessica's touch returned to her front right leg.

"Hey, lady," she cooed, turning her hand to run the back of her fingers very gently over the leg. "They were banging you around like a hockey puck." She ran her fingers lightly around her neck. No collar and tag.

"You okay?" She looked around, then began stroking her head. "I'll let you get home."

But when she put her down, she didn't move. Stood stock still, looking up at her. Jess sighed and scanned the rooftops.

"Go on," she said. "I got Shooter Girl out there somewhere. I can't be messing with a damn pet right now."

The hockey puck tilted her head, staring up expectantly. Jess stepped into the street, but the cat stopped her with a raspy meow.

"Great," she said, pulling her into her arms. "Fine. No, seriously, I need one more thing to worry about right now. No problem. At all."

She looked both ways and then made the jump up to her landing, holding the cat's legs firm for its safety. Back inside, she set her down gently on the couch, went to her desk, grabbed the Maker's Mark and swallowed hard, three times, then set the bottle down, turning to stare at the feline interloper.

"Figures," she sighed. She spun the computer on her desktop to face herself before pulling up Tor, logging into XenoMail, and hammering out a message. A tersely worded email that she hesitated to send, finger hovering, wondering if she should just show up at Stark Tower instead.

With a sigh she dropped the finger and heard the email swoosh.

Logging back out, she went into the bedroom just off a small hallway next to her office. The cat followed, despite Jessica's scowls. "Tomorrow," she said, "we check on a chip. No chip, then we're snapping a pic. Printing posters. So, I hope you love your family. You're going back."

Jessica tried to remember Smithie's class schedule, thinking the girl could earn a second day's work handling the cat issue while Jess shook some answers out of some lucky flunkie as to why the hell an assassin tried to cap her for serving some smug trust fund congressman.

With eyes on the mayor's office.

She stopped breathing a moment. Shook her head. _You're assuming that had anything to do with it. Hell, maybe I cut her off going through door at Hell's Chicken last week. Hydra eats chicken. Or hell, maybe it really was S.H.I.E.L.D.. S.H.I.E.L.D. eats chicken, too, right? Of course, if it turns out it was the Avengers, that's gonna be one short meeting._

Pulling off her scuffed boots, she collapsed on the bed otherwise fully clothed, too tired to change. Images and thoughts of Shooter Girl flashed and then melted in her mind.

She sensed the cat limping into the pool of moonlight on the floor to her right, where she looked up at her again. Jess stared back. "Hey, hockey puck. You're seriously not gonna be here a second night, so enjoy this one." She closed her eyes, murmuring. "But I'll have Smithie find a vet, get you looked over first thing. Foggy Nelson's dime, he's paid me enough to afford that for you."

She sank into alcohol's arms, breathing slower, steadier, as sleep crept toward her. But even in this stupor, her thoughts ran, darted from shadow to shadow, a violet hued and monstrous vapor following. She rolled to one side and frowned with concentration, pulling Oscar's imaginary arms tight around her, warm whiskey fog snaking through her nerves and stroking gently.

"Fuck you, Kilgrave," she murmured. "I'm feeling good."

"Hey? Claire?"

She wiped sleep from her eyes, looking up to see Luke pacing. The morning sunlight filled the room.

"Where's Trish?"

She looked the area over as if the woman might materialize out of the empty air. "Bathroom?"

"Nuh-uh," Luke said. "I checked. Everywhere."

Claire yawned. "So? She left."

"And she locked up from the outside?" He stared at the door, latched down tight.

Claire's mouth froze, hanging open, until she felt foolish and shut it.

Luke had gone to the door, checking the locks. A useless gesture, he knew, but at least let him be doing something.

"Luke?"

He turned to see Claire leaning through a frame, staring down the side of their building, gaze tumbling several stories down to the street. "Yeah?"

She looked back over her shoulder. "Did you open this window?"

* * *

 _ **Thirteen episodes comprise this "Season 2.5".**_


	2. Ep 2: AKA I Get That a Lot

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 2: AKA I Get That A Lot**

* * *

[Jessica Jones – voice-over] _Cobalt Lane. It's Cobalt Lane, dip shit. Humbolt? Seriously?_

 _Anyway, turns out when you publicly break a rapist's neck with one hand while he's threatening an entire crowd of innocents with horrific death? People start gathering around you after that, like they start thinking you're their long-lost supermom._

 _But I'll never be anybody's mom._

 _I was a sister, once, and I thought I was the worst sister in the world, until the night I learned I wasn't even the worse in our little duo._

 _Still. I'm nobody's answer to any problem in their life._

 _I can't keep my own shit straight._

 _I can barely remember Cobalt Lane._

* * *

"She up?" Jessica asked sotto voce.

"Still asleep," Oscar answered, motioning her to come in, eyeing her carefully as she did, the Abyssinian slung happily in the crook of her left arm. "You eat yet? Long night last night, I hear."

Jess jammed her right hand into the pocket of her leather jacket. "I'm good." She paused and sounded more grudging than she intended when she added. "Thanks."

"And I'm up," Smithie said, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She wandered out of Oscar's bedroom. Jessica had already spotted the spare bedding on a coach where Oscar himself must have slept.

"Hey, pretty lady!" Vido bounced up now, face shining. "When'd you get a cat?"

Smithie straightened and stared, joining in the surprise.

"Didn't," Jessica said, shifting her weight out of nervous energy, but smiling at the kid. "She was on the street, cars slapping her around like a hockey puck last night, I just – I picked her up."

Vido was scratching him behind an ear. "You rescued her?"

"No, she just, sorta, like, would not go away, so …."

"You rescued her," Vido nodded.

Jess chanced touching someone else, running her palm over the boy's head and shaking it gently before pulling back. "Vido, I was just trying to sleep. I went down to get her so she'd shut up already." She looked at Oscar. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, still smiling. "You need me to clean up, upstairs?"

"Oh, I cleaned up after her. Jesus, pets are even messier than men."

Oscar laughed, then looked at his son. "Hey, Vido, take her back there, get her some milk in a dish, okay?"

Vido looked up at Jessica for permission. She forced as sincere a smile as she could at him – forcing the _smile,_ which was unfamiliar to her face anymore, not her affection for the boy, which was indeed sincere – and swung the cat gently to him. The kid ambled on back, as his father slid closer, dropping his voice, a movement that cause Smithie to step toward them unconsciously.

"You okay?" Oscar whispered. "Somebody shot at you last night, I'm hearing."

Jessica shot a glance at Smithie. She blinked and looked away.

"I'm fine," Jones to him flatly.

"Who –"

"Don't know."

"Can I –"

"I'll handle it." She shifted her balance. "Occupational hazard. Well, that, and let's be honest." Her voice went dry, her gaze drifting to a point over his shoulder. "Me being me, in itself, could account for somebody wanting to pop a cap in my ass."

He folded his arms. Pursed his lips. "Okay."

"But, um – thanks." She ran her palm lightly, quickly down his arm, squeezed once, then let go. "Hey, Vido? Gotta go, buddy."

"She's limping," the boy said, crouched by the milk bowl.

She walked in, picked up the cat after letting her finish the milk, and explained she was taking him to a vet to get looked over.

Lido's eyes were cloudy. "She'll be okay?"

"I promise," she smiled, turning and leading Smithie out. She nodded a goodbye with another smile for Oscar, then looked at the temp once the door was closed.

"So, you want another day's work? I mean, full pay, but make your classes, too, I just -"

"Absolutely! I mean," she eased back, shifting her hip, arms loose beside her, in an imitation of Jessica's ever-shuffling stance that would have been obvious to anyone but Smithie herself. "I'm in."

"Don't get too excited," Jess said apologetically. "I gotta play PI solo right now, I just need you to take care of this." She lifted the cat.

* * *

"Fisk is in prison for a very long time, Lawson," Pryce Cheng insisted. "Currying favor with him doesn't get us a lot. Maybe some street grease, that's it."

The two paced through the financial district, the crowd buzz covering their conversation. Lawson carried a laptop bag, holding the strap close over his shoulder.

Lawson shook his head. "You don't get it. I got where I am today by being able to size up people, and I've met the man. Repeatedly. He's coming back and when he does, I need leverage. If possible, an alliance." He smiled grimly. "Once my man trumps Halberstam, we got the city on lease. If I could give Fisk something he wants – badly – then we could own it outright."

Cheng rolled his head, thinking. "All right," he said, with a resigned shrug. "But we both know the appetite that man has. So, what do you think would be big and bad enough to satisfy him?"

Lawson smiled. "I have one idea. But it depends on somebody turning out to be alive."

"You're going to bring the dead back to life?" Cheng laughed softly. "They said back at Parris Island you had a messiah complex. And that was coming from a bunch of marine recruits."

"They said worse about you when we went to ITB after," Lawson shrugged. "Anyway, no miracles needed. Let's just say I have a hard time believing this guy is dead." He gave him a sidelong glance. "Prove me right, and there's a key to the city to go with your fee."

Cheng gave him a side glance. "Just like you, I'm doing this for Kunar Province."

"Really?" Lawson asked, humorously and without rancor. "For once in your life, you're not in it for you?"

"Don't confuse me with Billy Russo or that asshole Rawlins. They didn't do any more for our boys when Kunar went down than these powered pricks. Too busy setting up their goddamn black market connects." He rolled his neck. "You want to go off on somebody being in it for themselves, take your pick. These preening media-darling freaks or the jerks we know who just used the Corps as a business internship."

"Yeah. It's why I was rooting for Frank Castle back here, but …." Lawson shrugged. "Pity what happened with him. Least Dinah Madani made it out of Russo's clusterfuck alive. She was on Castle's side in the end, left me with a soft spot for her in my heart."

Cheng shrugged. "I know what you mean about Castle."

Lawson pursed his lips, the screams for help echoing in his head, the site of what he'd found when his chopper finally made there burning his eyes. "Whole damn country wants a short-cut," he muttered. "Thinks these freaks give it to them thanks to their little show-off stunts. And that takes our eyes off putting what's needed on the ground to keep Kunar from ever happening again."

He turned and nodded once. "Thanks for setting it up on your end, Pryce. I don't question your motivations." He smiled slowly. "But don't tell me you won't enjoy what's about to happen to Jones."

* * *

Turk Barrett slammed back against the trunk of his car, stumbling around it before stilling himself. The man who had dropped from the sky casually strode toward him. He was a total contrast to Turk. Tall, Slavic; two-thousand-dollar suit.

"Mr. Barrett," he chuckled. "Sorry to have startled you."

"Damn, Ivan, since when do you fly?" Turk narrowed his eyes. "You misted up on some of that taste-the-power shit? Shouldn't use that spray, man, I've seen it turn kids' heads into mush."

He shrugged, his Russian accent thicker as his voice rumbled. "I am not a child, Mr. Barrett."

Turk nodded, then snapped open a rear door, pulling out a duffel bag. "I got Viktor his money. Right here, max deal, dime for dime."

The Russian was glancing around the area, up to the bridge, over to the river behind him. Finally, he stepped forward and took the case. Yet he seemed casual, curiously disinterested in the money. "The goods, you moved them all?"

"Yeah, the I.C.E.R.s went to some B&E guys, Upper Eastside. They loved getting hold of S.H.I.E.L.D. weapon tech. Those Hydra pulse grenades? Scrilla Hill bangers, Harlem. Well, and a couple of 'em sold to a tong down on Nathan Street." He ran the edge of his thumb over his lips. "You got more where that came from? I mean, either outfit, the buyers won't care."

The Russian nodded. "Weapons, vehicles, all kinds of things have drifted off the books of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra and a dozen other organizations in the course of all the chaos these past few years. But, yes, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra have been particularly chaotic."

"Why put this shit on the street? Draws attention. I mean, hey, ain't complaining, Viktor is paying good. I'm just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, is that not what you Americans say?" He chuckled. He walked closer, straightening the collar of Turk's jacket. "But we trust you. A true cat in a city of rats. Too, too many rats around this place. Let's leave it at this, Mr. Barrett. There is great profit in chaos. Speaking of which, check with your higher-end contacts. See what they'd pay for an LMD."

"A what?"

He laughed. "A Life Model Decoy. S.H.I.E.L.D. invention, originally. A robot, looks exactly like a person. See what person they might want to have, or –" he shrugged fatalistically "— perhaps they want an anonymous killer?" He waggled his hand. "Test out the market, as they say."

"Sure, no problem."

"We can even do animals. Extinct ones, real monsters, you know? Even put blood in."

"Yeah, yeah, Jurassic Park and shit."

"Programmable. Obedient to their owner's voice."

"Yeah, cool," Turk flustered on. "But look, hook me up with some of that alien tech still floating around, we can own the market."

"Spiderman killed the Chitauri market, Mr. Barrett."

"Yeah, too many spiders 'round this town, too." Turk sniffed, rolled his shoulders. "Now we got that girl, that new kid screwing up business just as bad as the cat lady. I assume you can fly that money on over to Viktor? Or you need me to drop you?"

The other man grinned, lifting slowly into the air and then was gone in a snap.

"Damn, these Russians are crazy," Barrett muttered. "Dumbass will be dead in a week off that mist."

* * *

At the bottom of the steps outside, Smithie made a motion with her hand: _where to?_

Jessica stepped out of the way for a child wearing sunglasses and tapping a little cane, her breath stopping a moment. The kid lived in her building and seeing her always made her remember her dead fellow Defender, Matt Murdoch.

She turned back to Smithie. "Greenleaf Veterinary. I'll walk you there." She eyed the "Keaton for Mayor" poster on the side of her building, wondering if it met code for the campaign to just slap that up onto a private wall. "But then I need to go check out some other shit. Just go in and –" she handed her a wad of bills. More of Nelson's money. "See if this mewling little hockey puck has a chip. Then they can find the owner."

She began walking, the temp slightly behind her. "What's a _dook?_ As in, "smooth as"?"

"Ghost. Slick. It's from _A Clockwork Orange._ You know, _Nadsat?"_

"Never read it," Jessica confessed. "Heard it was about a lot of my least favorite subjects. What, is it a favorite of yours, or something?"

"It's got all this slang in it – _Nadsat_ – people use it … well, those of us that hang around The Excelsior. I've scheduled a documentary project there, for class, I mean." She added a bit breathlessly. "You come up a lot there. Ever since the Watchdogs started the beat downs."

The light went off in Jessica's head. The Excelsior club was a haven for young powered in the area and those who loved them, or supported them, or wanted to be them. _Jesus, she really is a fan girl._

"I didn't know about that. The beat downs. I've been tied up lately."

Smithie. "It's okay. Not your problem really." The silence that developed seemed to make Smithie nervous. She rambled on, "Hey? Look, sorry if I messed up, telling your boyfriend about the shooting."

"Boyfriend?" Jessica frowned. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Oh. Well, sorry, again, I guess."

"Wait, did he say –"

"No! No, he didn't say you and him were – you know." Smithie shook her head, flustered. "He just said you were a really cool woman. But around him, you just seemed – I don't know, it just seemed –"

"We've slept together."

Horns were blaring in the distance. Smithie didn't say anything until Jessica finally looked at her, then she murmured. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry or anything."

Jess shrugged. "It's cool. I just don't want you thinking I'm some sort of romantic. I really only tear up when I spill my whiskey. Even then it's gotta be the top shelf. I spill it a lot, it's why I buy in bulk. But, again, don't copy off my life exam or you'll fail for sure. Especially when it comes to how you handle guys. Past couple of years, I can't even remember the names of a lot of them, there's a few I never even _knew_ their name, and I'm not proud of that."

Smithie's smile was slow but very sure. "No H-word. I get it. And I really can make my own decisions. I'm not a child."

For once, Jessica blanched. "Oh. Yeah, well. Yeah. I know, I know that." She shifted her weight back onto her left heel. "I'm sorry. I – that attitude was uncalled for on my part."

"No problem." The other woman turned and led the way as they kept walking toward the vet's. "You remembered Oscar's name, though, didn't you?"

Jessica laughed, which surprised her. Then she took this offered lifeline back to talking easily with Smithie, knowing it would cost her a bit of equivalency of status to make it back. She lowered her chin, dipping her shoulder closer to the girl "Actually, the first time – well, what would have been the first time – he turned me down."

Smithie arched her eyebrows, disbelieving.

Jess rolled her head, eyes shifting from shadow to shadow. "Yeah. I was drunk. I jumped him. Guy tosses a little kindness my way and five minutes later I'm yanking on his belt buckle. It was just another Tuesday night for Jessica Jones. Or a Thursday, I don't really remember." She shrugged. "He shut it down right there. I mean, that night was the first time we'd ever really even talked like that and I was kinda messed up – more than usual – a little needy, and it – wasn't the right time. So, he said it wasn't me, it was the timing, it just wasn't normal, and he walked. I kinda felt like he knew I was just a bit lonely, and … Oscar's a guy who tries to do the right thing. Best he can figure it out, anyway."

"Wow." Smithie's eyes widened with genuine shock. "When does any guy turn down sex? I mean with someone like you, especially. Strong, hot, cool – I mean, cool but hot, if you know what I'm saying, and I mean you, the woman who stopped that maniac -"

"Okay, you do remember the _no-H word rule,_ right?"

She nodded, blinking.

 _Keep it light, Jess._ "Look," Jones said, keeping her stride exactly the same, not wanting to tip her hand, "once hockey puck there is taken care of, head on back. I'll call in my card to your agency this afternoon."

"Back?"

"To your life," Jessica forced a smile, handing her the cat. "And you're getting _such_ a good review, just so you know."

Smithie stopped. "So, we're – done? You're _firing_ me?"

"Wait." Jess stopped her, taking the inside of her elbow with her thumb. "No. God, no. I'm – the job's over, Smithie. I am most definitely _not_ firing you. But somebody _shot_ at me last night. I can't have you around if -"

"Fine." The girl stared, jaw grinding angrily, eyes tearing up hot.

"Smithie? You seriously need to _not_ be around me right now. Nobody should be."

"Okay. Fine. I just thought –"

"What? We'd just hang out? We're friends, now?" She jammed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, riding high. She did a little dance on the balls of her feet, her eyes rolling away from the girl. "Yeah, well. Friend. I don't do that really well, you know?"

Smithie turned, storming down the sidewalk.

"Wait, you don't know where –"

The girl pointed at the vet shop's sign down the way. "I've got it covered," she called back over her shoulder. "See you 'round."

Jessica watched her go, sighed, and yanked her cell from her pocket. She punched in a phone number, waited for an answer, and then punched in a code number, thinking, _Hell's taking so long, Starketeers?_

* * *

Conner O'Malley sat cobra-coiled, eyes dull and hard, staring across the table where David Lawson buttered a plump, flaky roll. "Jackie's in, Captain. Felony charges, so nobody bailing her out, that ain't gonna surprise anybody."

Lawson was already savoring the first bite and took his time chewing amid the restaurant's muted clatter. Finally, he wiped his fingers on a linen napkin. "She knows the OPORD, of course?"

O'Malley nodded. "Per Op Orders, she's already recruited a team inside, cash basis, no clue on their part what it's really about or who they're gonna take out. Laid cash on intake as well. Twenty-four hours, tops, after the target is in police custody, our girl will take care of her." He rolled his shoulders, tapping his fingers on the table. "I also told Jackie her family will not want for anything. Ever. She'll take whatever the plea offer is and it'll be tied off."

"Of course, we'll see to her," Lawson answered testily. "I told you that. Hell, depending on this thing goes down, she may not even need to take the bitch out." He sighed, leaning back. "The target might not even make it to lock-up."

"Contingencies," O'Malley nodded. "Of course." He coughed, and his voice came out even higher than usual, a little more whistle on the edges as well. "Respectfully, sir, this little gambit Lukin is playing with Jones, getting personally, directly exposed like this. Is he crazy?"

"Yes," Lawson said simply. "He's a man who likes to play games. Drive ninety miles an hour with two wheels off the ledge. But we're stuck with him, and his need to be directly involved and playing those games."

O'Malley grunted.

Lawson shrugged. "So, you're loose at this point, right? Nothing pressing, now that we've planted our little ruby amongst the jewels?" When O'Malley confirmed this with a wary nod, Lawson went on. "I've got a matter placed with Pryce Cheng. I'm going to tell him I'll double his fee if he'll let you handle the Fisk dangle from here. What I need found out, if the info turns up, I'd rather keep it entirely within our circle. You understand?"

"Semper fi."

"Semper fi." He pulled two folded sheets from inside his jacket and shoved them across the table. "Use Cheng's elint and other resources but otherwise keep it solo. I want you, and only you, to know anything pertinent that turns up."

O'Malley already had the paper inside his own jacket.

"I think," Lawson said, "the devil may be sleeping."

* * *

Misty had just pulled keys from her pocket, looking back up at the sound of boots clapping down hard on the pavement. The woman facing her, coming out of a crouch, leaned against the car.

"We need to talk," Jessica said.

Misty looked up into the night, wondering from which of the landings or roofs the PI had launched, but she didn't break her own stride. She stopped an arm's length away. "You could've called."

"Yeah, well," Jess' eyes slid from corner to corner. "Better to keep it quiet as possible."

Misty gestured, and Jessica stepped back, then around the car as Knight unlocked it. The PI slid into the passenger seat, turning to where her police counterpart sat behind the wheel.

"Why is there so much alien and 'powered' agency weaponry pouring into Hell's Kitchen?"

"Is there?" Misty said.

"Yeah. But not one source outside Hell's Kitchen, official online, unofficial online, nobody on the phone, nobody on the streets – _nobody –_ is seeing the slightest uptick in other markets. Not Syria. Not Chechnya. Not Chicago. Not even another borough, here. Hell, not even most of Manhattan. Everything is focused here, in Hell's Kitchen."

"Seller's market?" Misty suggested.

"For this level of a heavy metal high tech dump in this small a space?" Jess turned her head and snorted. "The profits would be a lot better moving this shit around. Somebody's making money, but it's more 'cross-my-palm', not 'hand-over-fist' bank, like it could be."

"Why ask me?"

"I'd ask Costa, but it doesn't do his career a lot of good when people remember he doesn't want to shoot me in the head."

"You think I don't?"

"Clearly, I'm hoping you also fly against popular opinion around here."

Misty chuckled deep in her chest again. "I've never been all that popular myself."

"I'm not asking for confidential information. I'm looking for theories 'why.' Why dump all this shit into Hell's Kitchen? Who benefits?"

"Seriously?" The cop drummed her thumbs on top of the steering wheel. "Start keeping up with the news, girl. I'm betting you're kind of unplugged, what with all that happened, but – you seriously don't know? Keaton gets a big uptick, having you people to blame for every bit of violence down there, ever overdose of a kid who gets a bad bump of that enhancer mist, anything that lets him say 'powered' or 'gifted', it doesn't matter what comes before or after, the word ramps up the hate and hate ramps up his donations."

"Keaton?" Jess frowned. "The blow-dry prosecutor? Look, I get his whole thing about super-power costume vigilantes. Hell, I kind of agree, if you recall."

"Keaton's entire mayoralty campaign's gone beyond that. He's running on stopping the violence in the streets that he's blaming on powered and aliens and gifted and mutateds and anyone that's _not_ gonna vote for him. And after what happened to his boss Reyes, he's got a martyr's bloody toga to wave to the crowds so they howl for vengeance. Those weapons on the street …."

"So go after the Avengers, or S.H.I.E.L.D. or – here's a thought – how about those fucking Hydra Nazis? It's all their crap!"

"The Avengers are politically untouchable, S.H.I.E.L.D. has all but vanished, and Hydra is already being pitched as a false-flag conspiracy theory. But you people, you're out there, on the street, dealing with things people see every day. It's gonna get ugly, girl. Lotta cops are gonna be shoot first, questions never, dealing with anyone powered, especially vigilantes. Keep your head down."

"Me?" Jess blinked. "I don't do vigilante."

"I know that, I'm sure Keaton knows that, but that's your rep," Misty said as gently as she could. "Grand Jury no-billed you on Kilgrave's death, but that was a miracle, frankly. Foggy's damned good. But this city knows you for two things, and that's, one, killing a criminal with your bare hands because, two, you're super powered. Just – all I'm saying, you need to turn and walk away from anything that could remotely get punchy."

"So my right to self-defense is gone?" Jones stared out the front a few long breaths, then opened the door as she muttered, "Guess I'll put Nelson on retainer." She slipped out of the car and jumped.

* * *

Lawson was wrapping a phone call when Costa was ushered into his office. He kept his voice low, but the detective overheard enough to realize the attorney was checking on a monthly donation he made to the Incident First Responders Fund, a relief agency set up to assist cops and fire officers wounded during the Battle of New York. As much as the cynic in him leaned into the notion this was for his own benefit, Lawson's tone, volume and manner suggested it was for real.

After hanging up, Lawson stared at the spectacular view outside his office window, then turned his chair around. It was only then that the skilled interrogator sensed the civilian was switching into a public persona.

"Eddy Costa!" the lawyer took to his feet, face glowing with false bonhomie. "New York's finest."

Costa glanced around the office, lip slightly curled, but remained polite while shaking the attorney's hand. "Mr. Lawson. Pleased to meet you."

David Lawson resumed his seat like a potentate retaking his throne. "Please," he gestured to a chair facing the desk. "I appreciate you seeing me on short notice."

"Not sure what a street cop can do for you." The police detective scanned the spacious office as if looking for an escape hatch. "But the Commissioner insisted I make the meeting. Lawson, Daviano & Silver isn't on my radar, much. Had no idea you guys do criminal defense."

"You're right, we don't." Lawson nodded, smile fading into plasticity, gaze grim as he was clear determined to keep this friendly. "I'm sure you're busy, what with the explosion in crime down in Hell's Kitchen. I'll get right to it, shall I?" He leaned over the desk, folding his hands atop its spotless surface. "Has to do with the powered community that seems to have adopted your area. It's no secret, we're on retainer with ADA Keaton's campaign for mayor and – oh. I assume you've met Steven?"

"Never had the pleasure." Costa shifted, re-crossing his legs in this chair.

"Well, let's fix that soon. He needs to meet you. When he's mayor – and he will be – he'll be looking to get the right people in the right positions to get things back on track around here."

When Lawson wouldn't stop staring at him, Costa shrugged. "Okay," he sighed. "I'm still not clear on what you need from me."

The lawyer dropped his voice a step. "You knew Samantha Reyes, right?"

Everyone in law enforcement had known the late District Attorney, many of them personally. Costa simply nodded, brushing imaginary lint from the folds of his trousers.

"And you know how she died, of course," the lawyer went on. "Fair to say she's a martyr for those who know the streets belong to the _people_ not those …. Others. The vigilantes."

"You mean the freaks?" Costa asked.

Lawson relaxed, his smile suddenly genuine. "Ah, good. You do understand."

"I wasn't calling them that," Costa corrected. "I was just translating what you meant."

The attorney's smile chilled along with the room. "I see. I have to say, detective, your reputation is very professional. I'm a bit a surprised to hear you defending vigilantes."

"That's because you're mis-translating me." He sighed, leaning back. "What, again, is it you want from me, counselor?"

"Steven Keaton was a protégé of Samantha Reyes. He intends to finish her work. He intends to take the streets back. Take our city back." Lawson pointed at Costa. "And you are said to have some insight, some connections, in the powered community, who we frankly perceive to be a physical threat to him."

Costa blinked. "If there's been threats made, then –"

"Of course, there have been threats, and we've got private security looking into them." He looked idly around his own office, avoided Costa's gaze. "What I'm just saying, it would behoove us both to open up a line of communication – a lawyer who wants to help his client make New York City what it should be again, and a police detective of sterling reputation, unjustly overlooked until now."

"I see," Costa yawned. "Sorry. Double shifts, last couple of weeks. Hey –" he snapped his fingers, tilting his chin up. "Don't suppose your boy can do anything about our manpower issue if he makes Gracie Mansion, eh?"

"ADA Keaton will do a great many good things after he's won this race," Lawson smiled tightly. "But he won't be able to do anything if he goes down like his boss did in the middle of her fight against vigilantes like Frank Castle or the so-called Defenders." He tagged the last with an airless snort of contempt. "What I'd hope is that you'd let me know if he does wind up with anything to fear on that front?"

"Tell Mr. Keaton, NYPD will do its job." Costa shoved to his feet. "Anything else?"

"I heard there was a shooting the other night, just outside the apartment of some 'working girl.'" He added the address. "Know anything about that?"

Costa shrugged. "I work homicide," he said. "Anybody killed?"

The lawyer shook his head, drumming his fingers impatiently on a closed laptop in front of him.

"So, ask somebody who might know. I'll see my own way out."

Karen Page stiffened, but otherwise gave little away, when Jessica slid onto the sidewalk bench beside her. She kept her voice conversational. "There's a gun in my purse."

"Hello to you, too," the detective said, glancing around, before looking up at the _New York Bulletin's_ building behind them. "Lunch always make you so tense?"

* * *

Karen set her brown paper bag aside. "Depends on the company. The others never said much about you, during that –" she faltered. "What happened at Midland Circle. But I've read … things. Heard about your rap sheet. Tendency to toss rivals through plate glass, that sort of thing."

Jessica rolled her head around, eyes rolling upward. "Pryce Cheng? Come on, Karen, that was –"

"Super-strong and volatile. All I'm saying, that's a bad combination. Add in God knows how many people want you dead these days, and it seems like sitting next to you may not be all that great idea."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." She couldn't stop her head from swiveling automatically until she focused and forced herself to sit still. "And you've _read?"_ she added sarcastically. "You're a reporter, Karen. You've got the _Bulletin's_ powered beat. You don't just read things, you write a lot of them. And hear a lot more."

"Guessing? You want to know about something I've heard," Karen adjusted the hem of her skirt, tugging it firmly over her knees. "Since you've apparently read what I've already written. But most of what I hear is confidential."

Jessica made a quick exaggerated frown. "Look, this isn't about a case. Or a story. It's not even about me. Well, not just me." She coughed. "Off the record?"

When Karen didn't answer, Jess turned to stare at her. Karen's eyes were running over her, taking in her body language. "You're nervous. Your motor is fluttering."

"Yeah, well, if you want a peak under that hood, then this has to be off the record."

The reporter thought a breath more, then nodded, unwrapping her sandwich.

Jessica continued. "Somebody took a shot at me last night. What really has me worried, there was a woman. A girl. A kid, really, just a temp who was doing some work for me, she was there." Her eyes flared hot, causing Page to flinch. "Right there! She could easily have been hit, just accidentally. And now? Now she's been seen with me. So, I want this run to ground fast, I don't want them going after her. Me, I can handle myself."

"And here they say you never talk much," Karen chuckled. She rubbed her forehead. "Look, I'm sorry somebody shot at you. And of course, I don't want to see this other person hurt. But how I can help? I mean, in your line of work, isn't it -"

"Common? Look, it's not like on TV, but yeah, it happens. It's just the shooters don't hop into S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjets right after it. Usually."

Page rewrapped the sandwich, dropping it onto her lap. "And now I regret the 'off the record' basis."

"Well, if it benefits my client in the end, I'll be back with an exclusive for you."

"To be clear, you saw a Quinjet, with a S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle paint job?"

"Right," Jess nodded. "So, I'm thinking, Hydra, since they love to pretend to be S.H.I.E.L.D. so much they probably buy the action figures in bulk off Ebay. And to be clear, we _are_ still off the record?"

Karen nodded, tapping her pursed lips with a forefinger. Jessica's respect for her went up another notch: the woman had calmly taken in the story and was already thinking. She had unwrapped the sandwich again, now stuffing it into her mouth with a pragmatic disdain for ladylike decorum.

"So," the reporter finally said, wiping at the corners of her mouth with her fingertips. "What do you want to know? I'll tell you right now I don't know anything about anyone shooting at you, or about Quinjets rambling around town, or I'd end this talk right now and take it to the cops."

"Off the record, remember?"

"Didn't say I'd print a thing." Page's mirthless laugh rasped true to Jones' ears. "But I think we've both seen enough of – _that_ – world that neither of us would think twice about moving to protect this girl, this – civilian? I guess is the best term? Whatever the 'ethics' involved."

"Fair enough," Jessica sighed. "But what about Luke? Danny? You wouldn't go to them first?"

Karen's smile answered the question.

"You just wouldn't tell me," Jess nodded. "Okay. Dick move. But okay. Exactly what I'd do in your place."

The reporter pulled something from the bag wrapped in cellophane, revealing it to be a brownie. She broke it in half and offered some to Jones, who waved it away.

"Said," Jessica muttered.

Karen arched her eyebrows.

"You said, _said_ ," Jessica went on. "The others never said much about me. Not _say_. You're not in touch with the others, anymore? Luke? Danny? Claire?"

"I've lost enough people," she said. "I don't avoid the others now, I just …." She shrugged.

"Yeah," Jessica sighed. "I understand. Involving people, not involving them …." She drifted.

"What?" Voice gentle, Page turned slightly, giving Jess three-quarters of her profile.

Jones shook her head slightly, easing out of fugue. "Seems like I hurt people no matter what." She shook her head once more, hair lifting at the edges with a light breeze. "Never mind, that's on me. And for me to deal with. So, you don't talk with Danny or Luke much now. What about some of Murdoch's old contacts? He always seemed to be on top of things. That info came from somewhere."

Karen stiffened, and took the rest of the brownie into her mouth. She took her time chewing, swallowing elaborately.

 _Mouth dry_. Jess thought. _Why?_

Page changed the subject. "Danny would pay for a security detail if you wanted, I'm sure."

"I can take care of myself." Jessica took to her feet quickly, her nerves almost launching her preternaturally high until she caught herself halfway up, not displaying her power. "But there are others to worry about." She handed Karen Page her card. "If you hear something?"

"Sure." Karen took the card without hesitation, but it was only after Jess had turned that she said, "Because he trusted you. And he was a good man."

Jones half-turned, puzzled, then her face cleared with understanding. "Oh. Murdock. Yeah." She rolled her shoulders in her jacket. "I hope that God of his is taking good care of him."

* * *

The phone buzzed twice before he answered. "Costa."

"Eddy? Dinah." Papers were shuffled in the background. "The trap-and-trace went live three hours ago." She sighed, voice weighed down with pessimism. It was a steel backbone and blazing determination that kept Dinah Madani going, Eddy Costa believed, despite this fatalism he'd noticed since he'd been seconded by NYPD to her tiny federal task force. "Could take a month to build up enough of a pattern to get a FISA warrant for a voice tap, though."

"Keep a good thought," he said. "We got recklessness, we got religious craziness, we got internationals moving in and out, and we got wild egos in play. Somebody will trip up soon."

"That's what they said about al Qaeda. Isis. Hydra."

"Yeah, but this time we got you," he chuckled. "We got this, Dinah. But right now, I gotta go." He hung up, shifted in his car, and watched a man perhaps in his late forties walk into Josie's. He dressed and looked like he could just as easily have bought the dive bar and moved it to pricier parts of Manhattan in one piece.

He wasn't going in just for a drink. It was just not his kind of place.

Costa had followed the guy's taxi there, and then watched him pause to take a call. Now, Costa was tempted to wait a bit and then idle into the place himself to see who he wound up talking with, but too many regulars at Josie's knew him. A single "Hey, detective!" and he was made.

He thumbed a text with the name of the bar, the address, a snapshot he'd just taken of the man, and the words: "UC 2x. ETOH AUTHD ON DTY."

Then he sighed and began biding his time before the task force could get someone there who _could_ see who this joker talked to in Josie's.

Leaning back, tapping the wheel, he did a quick sweep of the area. A guy in his early twenties looked much too casual, sitting on a bench across the street from the dive bar, facing it. Curly red hair, shifting gaze; he was acting like the corner man for a street drug market, but his eyes focused on the Josie's. He held a cell phone in his palm, and wore a medium weight leather jacket, much too much jacket for the day's temperature.

Costa looked back at the bar's door, staring hard as if he could see through it. "All right, Cross," he muttered, glancing at his watch, still worried this was a quick drop-and-walk. "Hope to God you wore that suit for a full-on meet." He thumbed "ETA?" into his cell and texted it to CenCom Gold, who was handling comms for his operation.

That sense of being watched himself caused Costa to look up at the corner man staring, then blanching and looking away from him. The kid yanked his jacket collar up to cover his face a bit, staring resolutely ahead. It was warm, even for the time of year. Only Jessica Jones would wear a jacket this afternoon, Costa thought, unless it's there for cover.

He rolled his neck, hand over his back, as if easing muscles, but in fact checking a wider area. Another jacketed toughster was down the street, staring blankly down at a folded map. Early twenties; the type who more likely would have been using Google maps off his phone instead.

The detective wondered if they were watching the target or counter-watching on the target's behalf. Given that he hadn't noticed them appear, and assumed they'd been here first, it was likely the latter – backing up the target - unless they had been tipped off that the target would show up here.

"Folds in folds in folds," he muttered.

He sighed, only a touch of tension leaving his body, as he saw a young couple stride purposively to the door and slide into the bar. Two seconds later his phone buzzed; he glanced down to a text where CenCom Gold checked them in and on duty. He punched "4" and hit reply.

He wished he could authorize a little alcohol on duty for himself for the moment, but went back to mentally cataloging all the movement around the place.

* * *

"I'm not sure how much clearer I can be." The woman leaned back in her chair, chin up, one finger pushing her glasses back up the slide of her nose, one strand of her auburn hair trailing over her cheek, down to her chin.

Her gaze shifted from the charismatic attorney to the strikingly aristocratic face of the man sitting just across from her as he set his coffee cup down on the table between them. "Mr. Hellstrom, I find things. Physical things. Not … well, ley lines or whatever you're talking about."

She looked back at Jeri Hogarth, seated beside Daimon Hellstrom. Hogarth had scanned the other woman's compact body and long legs with an open abandon that those around her had found growing since her disastrous medical diagnosis. It was a gaze Jeri's yoga instructor, for one, had come to know, as a prelude to embraces she'd come to enjoy. Hogarth's radar was in fact accurate as to this woman, as well, although at the moment her mind was elsewhere and she'd barely noticed, let alone considered, Jeri's interest.

Hogarth cleared her throat, ready to speak, when her client interrupted.

"Dr. Riggs," he said. "You deal in antiquities, of a particular quality. But you surely sense things as well, to be as successful as you are. Here, for instance – do you sense anything here?"

Jeri ran her palms over her arms, a sudden chill rolling past her, and looked around at the rich wood and brick interior of The Landmark Tavern. A genuine landmark, this one, rich in the lore of Hell's Kitchen, from its foundation just after the Civil War, on through its days as a watering hole for the infamous Westies racketeers, and on down to its rebirth as a must-stop for tourists and denizens alike.

She laughed.

Annabelle Riggs' laugh was easy, throaty, belying an earthiness that defied the anthropologist's professorial bearing – but then everything Pryce Cheng and Malcolm Ducasse had dug up on her for Jeri suggested she should not be read at a surface level. Adorkable or not, in the field this woman made Indiana Jones look like just some guy who crashed airplanes and hid in refrigerators.

"I know this place is supposed to be haunted. So just the suggestibility of that lore might influence whatever I think I feel," she said. She admonished him playfully, waving a finger. "I'd heard you have somewhat romantic notions about the past, Mr. Hellstrom."

"And you're not a romantic?" His gaze cut to Jeri Hogarth briefly as a devilish smile played over his lips, startling Jeri – it was as if he _knew_ what she'd been thinking. He shifted focus back to Dr. Riggs. "I thought all archaeologists were."

Riggs cut her own glance at Hogarth, who smiled back with professional detachment, her eyes strikingly demure for a legal tiger. "Romanticism goes with the territory," Annabelle admitted. "But honestly, I'd be practicing charlatanism if I said –"

She stopped as her phone buzzed. "Sorry, it's the museum."

"Please," Daimon smiled and gestured.

She read a text, and then laughed, looking up. "Odin's balls! Someone stole everything we have on the smilodon." At their blank looks, she said, "Saber-tooth tiger." She tucked her phone away. "And they say I'm a geek."

Hogarth leaned forward. "Dr. Riggs –"

She smiled and her palm went up flat, facing Jeri. "Annabelle, please."

Jeri smiled. "Annabelle. I'm not noted for either sentimentality or romanticism, so forgive my being blunt. But from my perspective – on behalf of Mr. Hellstrom – there are two simple questions. Do you know, or have some … intuition … about where this apparently fabled jewel might be found? And if so, what's the price for the information?" She sat back.

"The thing is," Daimon murmured, "Annabelle." He leaned forward. Both women shivered, neither noticing the other's puzzled glance looking for the source of the chill. "There is a darkness coming." He broke off his speech, and leaned back, eyes blazing blue flame. "A storm will hit this world, all worlds, unless I am able to secure that jewel rather than have it fall into other hands."

The archaeologist would ordinarily – and openly – have rolled her eyes at this point, but something about Hellstrom made her freeze, staring at him. And when she responded, it was with a respectful quiet. "Sir, I've honestly never heard of an 'Infinity Stone,' but I'll keep my ears open. If I hear anything, I'll contact your attorney, here."

"I'd look forward to that," Hogarth volunteered, and the two exchanged a look that was knowing – on Riggs' part – and inviting on Jeri's part.

"One thing," Daimon noted. "If the storm breaks, stand ready. Call me a delusional believer in 'intuition,'" he smiled, "but I sense that if things break that way, someone important will find you, and need you by her side, to do her part in setting things right."

"Okay," Annabelle said blankly, lacking any notion of how to take that. "Well, I'm sorry, but I've got a lecture." She stood and smiled brightly. "It's about the Valkyries."

Once they had all stood and exchanged pleasant parting words, and Dr. Riggs was gone, Hellstrom turned to face Jeri Hogarth. "Now then," he said, retaking his own chair. "I believe you had promised an updated report from Ducasse on the cat girl, this new vigilante. She's been making a quite a name for herself, I understand?"

* * *

"I almost get the impression you consider drinking a duty, not a pleasure."

Jessica turned her head with a dip of the chin, glaring down the five feet of the bar to where the man sat. Through the charcoal boozy haze in her head, her PI surveillance mind kicked in.

 _Not the usual Josie's customer._ Caucasian. Salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, five-ten, one seventy-five, lean. Runner, or maybe bicyclist. Forties. Anchorman face. Tiny scars, left side of the chin. Birthmark, right side of the throat. Pianist hands. Watch – worth more than she made last month. Suit – worth more than she made the past six. A hitch to how he'd reach for his drink, very slight wince each time. Recent injury, or old but unhealed?

He wasn't that bad on the eyes, carrying his age with aplomb, unless it was the buzz blurring her focus. She'd killed a bottle in a sack on the way to the bar.

She'd noticed him come in an hour ago, not because of his looks, but because of his suit. He was tailored for someplace Not Josie's. Apart from themselves, there were a couple of morose retirees, a biker in search of a patch, a young couple who'd come in not long after the suit did. She didn't like the look of the last – a bit too studied in their grunge. But what the hell, she was off the clock.

She stared at her own reflection: dark hair tousled by her hand compulsively brushing through it the past few hours. Bags under her eyes, shoulders sagging in her battered leather jacket. She'd started shortly before noon, and she'd been hitting it hard, even by her standards. "You really think I could any less interested in what you think?"

Mr. Suit spoke again. "You really think you can get any more drunk?"

"You've been putting it down pretty quick," he went on.

"This is business of yours?" She slam-swallowed her drink, then waved the glass. "Josie?"

The bartender ambled over, eyebrows arched. "Same?" she asked.

"Yeah, Teacher's."

Josie already had that bottle in her hand. She nodded and poured. "Going at it real hard, even for you, Jess. You're not working, right?"

Jessica shot her an _oh please_ scowl. "I can pay. I'm working again."

"I just meant, when you're working a case, sometimes things can get a bit rambunctious."

Closing one eye, the PI stared at the other woman through the amber fluid in her glass. "Rambunk – bunk - sush?"

"Hitting. Kicking. Shooting." She shrugged. "The odd knife or two."

"You got a weird way a'working a tip."

"Ambulances make passersby just kinda … pass by."

"Yeah, well, wha'can I say?" Jessica sipped at her drink and shrugged. "Moxic tasc lin - mask. Tomix. Fuck it. Shit does tend t'follow me around."

"Is that why you drink so much?" The man down the way asked.

"I could drink s'much more," she slurred, "if people didn't keep interrupting me." She set the glass down, gently, a slight smile tugging the left corner of her mouth at how closely the bartender watched this. "I've only broken two tonight, Josie."

The suit tapped the bar with a fingernail. "I was just making conversation."

"But I could make it three," Jones went on, looking at Josie but speaking to him. "Two glasses to warm up and an asshole's arm as a chaser."

He chuckled. "I meant no offense, Ms. Jones."

She turned and faced him, her stare hard. "Okay. So y'know my name. You followed me in here?"

"I wanted to talk."

"You must be surveillance, not a stalker." She threw the rest of the well whiskey down her throat, wiping her lips with the back of her finger-gloved hand. "Usually notice stalkers," she said. "And by now, they're usually black and blue and screaming for Vicodin."

"I bought the information on your habits. You get a lot of stalkers?"

"No. But when I do," she twisted her head once, hard, clapping the glass back onto the bar. "They're the worst kind."

He nodded with – approval?

 _What, like that's a good thing? Creep much?_ she thought.

"That's why I wanted to hire you," he replied, sliding a fat envelope from his suit jacket's inner pocket, holding it up in the light. "Maybe we could talk it over, over in a booth? I'm buying."

"You know s'much about me, then you know where my office is," she said, voice strengthening as adrenaline – Jessica Jones' super-adrenaline – kicked in, clearing her head. _I came in here to stay fuzzy and make a guided jump to plastered, damn it._ "And I'm working on something a little intense already. So, hey, see me t'morrow afternoon."

"You might be busy."

"For you," she said, pulling a buck off a small roll in her jacket's left pocket, "I'll clear my schedule." She slammed the glass down, shattering it, then tossed the dollar on the counter to pay for the glass. "If you think you want to open that door."

"Seriously, Jones?" Josie snapped. "You're just breaking my shit for show, now?"

Jessica leaned forward on the counter, shoulders hunched up high as her ears, eyes shifting, voice low and conspiratorial. "I was making kind'ova important point to creeper boy down there. I paid up."

Josie sighed, tapping the bill Jess had shoveled onto the bar. "This is a one. That was a twenty-dollar shot glass."

"Bullshit! You'n I both know you pay five each for 'em out of those boxes that keep 'falling off the back of a truck'."

"This," the bartender lifted the dollar, "is still a one."

"You got mad math skills, Josie. That's why you're my second favorite bartender."

"No, that's because I'm like the only one in Hell's Kitchen hadn't put your picture on a DO NOT ENTER poster outside."

Jessica turned a brief breath to take in a young couple who came through the door, shy as if in a new place, looking it over without ever making eye contact with the mouthy jerk at the bar or herself. She assumed they weren't with him or were good at pretending not to be.

"I'll pay for the glass," the man said, drawing her look back. He tilted his index finger back and forth, indicating Jones and himself. "And the next round's on me."

"Don't make me take my considerable trade to the Upper West Side, Josie," Jessica growled. "One, I can't afford their prices. And two, you like me being around to keep the Dogs of Hell and other assholes from acting up in here."

Josie stared, then chuckled, moving to the till. "Fair enough, but that'll be four more bucks on your tab, Jess." She rang the money in, then turned and said, "Wait a minute, who's your most favorite bartender?"

Jessica leaned back, her palm covering her eyes until she blinked the sudden moistness out of them. "His place, he's …. He's not open anymore."

The man coughed. "Yeah, um, down here, ladies? I said I'd pay for it."

"What'd you do, Jess, blow his place up?" Josie was kidding, but when she turned and saw the look of Jessica's face, her own went serious. "What did I say?"

The man tapped the toes of his expensive leather shoes against the bar, holding up a ten-dollar bill. "Hello? I said –"

Jessica wilted him with a glare. "Yeah. Only, no. You're not buying me a drink, let alone picking up a dime off my tab, and consider that invite to meet tomorrow –"

He spun the envelope he'd pulled out earlier down the bar to stop against a shard of broken glass. "Then you pay for it," he said. "Out of your retainer, there."

She picked it up. Opening it just for information, to figure out this guy's game, she didn't intend to keep it, then –

"Holy shit!" she exhaled, staring at the sheaf of bills, enough to solve the pressing rent problem for the next year.

"You retaining my services or buying my entire building?" She shrugged. "Cause for that, you gotta talk to Eugene. As for me, thing is, I've been chasing cases, but I don't trust it when a case chases me." Jessica sent the envelope twisting back down the bar, slid off the barstool, shockingly steady for all she'd had to drink, and turned toward the door. "Josie, if he walks out this door behind me, or anytime in the next thirty minutes, lemme know later and I –"

"You're the only one who can help her, Jessica Jones," he said.

She stood stock still, took in a deep breath. "I had an associate. Malcom Ducasse." It had been ages since she'd said anything to Malcolm but a muffled "hey", walking past him as he installed a security camera outside his apartment down the hall, but: _what the hell_. "Hear he's still working, you should try him. Trust me, he loves lost causes. He'll find whoever this 'her' is."

"They say Ducasse is working for a real prick," the man said curtly.

"Well," she turned. "They're not wrong. Tell you what, try Angela del Toro."

"Don't know her," he replied.

"She's like a tiger after red meat when it comes to missings and skips. She can find her." Jessica did a tipsy whirl-and-walk.

"Oh, I'm sure all kinds of people can _find_ her," he said. "But I've done my research. That's why I said you are the only one that can actually _help_ her."

She froze. Sighed. "Fuck me."

The PI turned again and faced him, fully intending to tell him she had her own shit to deal with right now, but heard other words fly out of her mouth. "Fifty for a consultation. Normally that's free but you killed my buzz."

He pulled out his wallet, leaving the envelope on the bar for the moment. Jessica took the moment to slide her phone from her pocket, as if checking for messages, but in fact tapping on the Bail Out app, the auto-timer already set.

Her head was clearing rapidly, as she forced herself to focus, flooding her body with Jessica Jones levels of adrenalin. The PI jerked her thumb at Josie. "The fifty goes to her. Should cover what I owe in broken glass. You, I'll meet in the least sticky booth I can find. No offense, Josie."

She was already holding a fifty-dollar bill to the light. "None, taken."

Glancing skeptically around at first, Jessica waited in the now unofficial Least Sticky Booth until the suit slid in across her. He laid a fat expanding file folder, flap knotted shut, on the table. The cash envelope, he pushed toward her. She didn't take it, but didn't push it back, either.

He smiled. "I'm Samuel Cross."

"Yeah, and we've already established you know my name. But why me to begin with?"

"You ask everybody that?"

"Not everybody. Mostly just the ones who stalk me first."

"I didn't stalk you. It's complicated."

"So is the human hand but a fist comes off simple enough."

"Let's just say that I only use the best."

She rolled her eyes. "Use a line like that on me again, I'll walk out of here. But you won't. Won't be able to." She folded her arms. "Wanna try again? And why are you chuckling?"

"I enjoy the banter – the give and take of your game. It's fun to play. As for why _you_ , the key is that Rebecca is … I'm sorry, what is it you people prefer to be called? Powered or gifted?"

Her lip curled. "Well," she drawled the word slowly. "We actually prefer being called 'people.' But anything north of freak and south of hero probably won't get your jaw broken."

"Do you threaten everyone you meet, Ms. Jones?"

"Only the ones who talk to me like I'm a freak, and only about half of them. You fell into the wrong half today." She shrugged. "And if you're just looking for muscle anyway –"

"That's not what I meant," he said. "What I think has gotten hold of my niece, it'll require an almost unique skill set to help her. It's …." He seemed unsure of himself for the first time.

"Complicated. Great," she said, yanking a wad of paper napkins over to where her hand posed above. "Got anything I can write with?"

He handed her a Mont Blanc Diplomat. She scowled at the fountain pen. "Got one that won't bleed through this tissue paper?"

"I told you. I only use the best."

She rolled her eyes again but uncapped the pen. "I'll make do."

He laid a fat expanding file folder, flap knotted shut, on the table. The cash envelope, he pushed toward her. She didn't take it, but didn't push it back, either.

He smiled. "No need for notes, you'll find the info in that folder." He shifted, easing back in his seat. "But the gist is this. I have a niece. Rebecca Cross. She's missing. I need her found and back safely. That is the only priority here."

Jessica's phone began a buzz-dance on the table top where she'd put it. The Bail Out app had sounded off, right on time, flipping the camera on with it as well. Video, not flash; no light showing.

"One sec, let me check this," she said, lifting it, holding this way and that as if trying to make out the screen in the glamor of Josie's bar. Swiftly, she brought the phone up until the man's face filled the view, the running film catching all of it before she mashed her thumb on it, shutting Bail Out and the camera off while muttering, "Later on that."

A second punch as she put it away and it emailed the video to her computer. Once, it would have gone to Trish, but … idly she wondered if Oscar would mind picking up "if I go missing" duties.

"Sorry." She pocketed her phone, then looked back up at Samuel Cross. "Niece? How old?"

"Eighteen."

She rolled her eyes. "A girl – or a boy – hits that age, they can go a bit crazy, run away from all they've known, take a few chances."

"Without really knowing the odds," he said, almost growling before he caught his temper and regained outward equanimity.

"How long's she been gone?"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks? That's like an all-nighter at her age. She's probably hitting every club she can find. She'll get tired and go home."

"But there's more to it than that."

Jessica stared, finally snapping, "You gonna tell me? I'm not psychic."

"No, but you are otherwise powered. Like her."

 _Shit._

"And," he brushed lint that didn't exist off a sleeve that probably cost a few hundred dollars in itself, "you've dealt with those who hunt your kind. So, with her suddenly gone, I'm thinking it'll probably take Jessica Jones to figure out who and certainly take you to do something about it."

She kept her face neutral, but her heart began ticking. She rubbed her left shoulder, then chased away a bad memory to focus on Cross. "She's powered?"

He nodded.

"You're sure about that?"

"For reasons. Yes."

"Do tell," Jessica said.

He did. And every bit of common sense told her to stop listening. Stop listening to the problems of a young powered in a bigoted family surrounded by hate-faith fundamentalists who wanted powereds burned to ash.

She couldn't help but notice him fidget when he talked about Rebecca being gifted, hanging out with powereds; couldn't help but notice that his gaze would wander to her hands, that same snatch of a glance she got all the time now. People amazed by how small they were, given that all of New York City knew she'd picked a man up by the throat and snapped his neck with just one of them.

She couldn't help but notice the glaze in his eyes when they'd inevitably flicker back up to hers, as he kept talking about how he just wanted his niece back, even though she knew clients never liked the answers Jessica usually brought back instead.

Jess knew she should walk. She was flush with the cash from the job she'd pulled on that asshole congressman for Foggy Nelson.

But she kept remembering what this Italian suit stuffed with a "Samuel Cross" inside it had said, what led her to sit down and listen.

There was a girl lost in the wind out there.

 _You are the only one that can actually help her._

 _No._ She could figure out what she'd charge as a referral fee when Angela called to thank her for the job by the time she got back to her apartment. But right now, she needed to walk away, go deal with her own shit.

 _The only one that can actually -_

Walk ….

…. away ….

 _Help her._

She sat back and stared at him, eyes wide, gaze flat.

"Start at the beginning."


	3. Ep 3: AKA Hung Out To Dry

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 3: AKA Hung Out To Dry**

[ Jessica Jones – voice over:] _Here's the thing about a big pay day. You want to ride that wave._

 _I won't say you need to, because it might go forever. But what really does last forever, other than pain? So, when you're in business for yourself, yeah, you grab every dollar that slides under the door._

 _The Incident did only one good thing for me, which it accomplished by location, meaning it nailed an expensive one, which let me have a convenient one. It wrecked everything a few blocks away. West 46thand 10th, my place would have been – what? Twenty-five hundred? Thirty-five a month?_

 _If they'd let the likes of Jessica Jones even in the building._

 _Sure, they'd be renting the apartments on this corner, but probably with a pottery hobby store on the first floor and a gourmet food boutique instead of a coffee and cold sandwich shop on the other side. I'm paying under two grand and Oscar looks the other way while I'm running a detective agency down the hall from my bedroom. Me, most of the people in here, we couldn't have afforded the place until aliens blew the hell out of shit a few blocks to the east._

 _Of course, we're always a month away from somebody gentrifying, like a lot of Hell's Kitchen. Like Wilson Fisk was doing._

 _Was. Till Devil Boy and Page and Nelson got him put away. Point is, when it's raining, put out buckets. Take every gig, grab all the cash you can. Rent will only go up, and booze isn't free. Usually._

* * *

Jessica had forced sleep away early – for her – because she had work to do. Fortunately, it was right on her desk. She had logged into a chat account through Tor, not bothering with any further anonymizing steps. The subject was neither law enforcement nor of interest to them, and very unlikely to backtrack to the third computer's exit node.

Subject: a Baptist minister whose wife suspected of having "a wandering heart." As she'd warned the client was likely, the righteous reverend had more of a meandering dick than a wandering heart, but she knew she needed the case air tight before his sunshine-and-daisies pastoral wife would face it – especially with what the PI had found.

Jess was now on her fourth alias on BearCubs-dot-com, using a spoof ID, once again pretending to be a shy, confused college boy from a campus prayer group, and thereby falling into the demographic upon which the Reverend liked to lay hands in between sermons condemning other men to hell for committed, mature relationships.

It was the standard issue denial-projection-condemnation hat trick Jones knew had always driven the vast majority of what amounted to politics and religion with such destructively insane sincerity. She almost preferred the self-awareness of real hypocrites.

She logged in to leave a message as her spoof identity, cancelling "his" assignation with the minister for that night, begging off because of school work. Jess didn't have time for this right now, not with Shooter Girl wandering around, Rebecca lost out there, and Hell's Kitchen boiling higher to the lip of the pot every moment that passed without Devil Boy to keep a lid on it in anymore.

She had decided she'd take care of Pastor McSwizzleStick and his Magic Dick later in the week, which would give her time to have the file wrapped up and hold the painful meeting with the client, where she inevitably listen to how wrong she and all the evidence was. The man wasn't likely to get at any new confused parishioners or rent-boys in the meantime – he was on an ocean "prayer cruise" with a pack of other God's shepherds set to discuss the "gay agenda" and look over "mountains of shocking photographic evidence of depravity". But she made herself promise to close it out the minute the guy got back ashore.

She glanced at a note she'd made after calling Greenleaf Vets. The cat was healing quickly; miraculously quick, in fact. One tough little hockey puck. _Great, with my luck IGH is working with cats now._

But no subdural chip – no way to trace the cat back to a proper owner. She shook it off, sliding the note into a "to-do" pile. She considered the lost cat, but brushed it into the pile mentally. She'd stop by in the evening and pay for upkeep at Greenleaf, then print up "missing" fliers later and find the cat's home.

Heading out the door, Jessica ran into a "Sandra Pritchett", who was about to knock, hoping to meet without an appointment. Even itching to hit the streets and get to work on the Cross case, Jess figured she'd hear the woman out. She was dressed to the nines and – Foggy's check, Samuel Cross' check, notwithstanding – Jessica's rent still wanted paid in tens.

She went back in, took her desk and told Ms. Pritchett to start from the beginning.

Turned out that Sandra Pritchett had a sister. "Miranda." She sighed. "Everybody's looking, but no one can find Miranda."

 _How Joss Whedon._ Jess managed a serene nod.

"Ms. Jones, you know how sisters can be, right?"

"You have no idea," Jessica replied.

Miranda took up with a no-account boyfriend. Stopped calling, stopped returning calls; nobody in the family had heard from her in three weeks. "Fine, if she needs space. The family just wants to verify she's still living at the same address and looks okay. That's all we're looking for … for now." The lady frowned. "A face-to-face pretense call? I think you investigators call it?"

"Pretext," Jessica corrected, setting aside the photo she'd been given for the file. "Yeah, I knock on the door, tell her I'm doing a survey or whatever. Three weeks – is that uncommon?"

"I know it seems silly, but we just want to make sure Miranda's okay." She glanced over her shoulder (for what purpose other than staking out a drama queendom, Jess couldn't guess). "The thing is, when she broke up with her last boyfriend, he called me, said she was suicidal. And he brought me …" she opened her purse, hesitated, then reached in. "This. Said she'd bought it a week before – a month ago, now. I was hoping it's just a toy, but …."

She drew a semi-automatic pistol out, holding the barrel between her thumb and finger very lightly as she dangled it precariously over the desk. Alarmed for both their safety, Jessica lurched forward, taking it from her. Sighing with relief, she leaned back, looking it over as she ejected the magazine smoothly. Empty. She racked the slide, and a shell didn't pop out. She sniffed at the barrel and along the body of the gun.

"It's real," she confirmed. "But I don't think it's been oiled in months. Has she got papers for this?"

Pritchett shrugged.

"It's cheap," Jess went on. "Lorcin .380. It's a street gun. You'd pay four hundred in a shop, maybe a third, quarter even, of that on the street. Gangs like 'em. They can buy in bulk. Half the time the registration is sawed off and you get 'em in back alleys. But they jam like a motherfu – lot. I don't think even Turk Barrett would deal in Lorcins. Not these days anyway."

Pritchett shrugged again, her frown suggesting Jessica was now speaking in Klingon, but held out her hand. The PI put the gun down in front of the client, pistol and mag wrapped still separated.

"Okay," Jess said, leaning back, hands folded on her desk. "I'll take the job, but here's the thing. If she's not there today, it may be a couple more before I can check on her." She shrugged. "Gotta be someplace in the meantime."

"Oh, no, that's – that's wonderful!" Having stuffed the gun and its clip back in her purse with the same light fingertip / thumb hold in the same spot of the barrel, Sandra looked up with a smile was out of a toothpaste commercial as she palmed the clip and slid it in as well. "We never dreamed you'd be able to get to it that fast. That's – that will work."

Jessica shoved papers across the desk. "There's a contract. Take your time –" but as Jessica reached for her laptop, the woman simply uncapped a pen.

"Don't need to read it, I'm sure it's fine," she smiled, filling in contact information and signing it. She was polished, vaguely attractive, mid-forties. She smiled brightly as she moved the papers back toward the PI. "I don't have my checkbook, and I hate using credit cards – would you take cash?"

 _As long as Sonny's trades whiskey for 'em, I'll take rat-pelts._ "Sure," Jess smiled.

The woman rifled bills from a wallet in her purse and pushed them over the desk next to the contract. "I'll wait to hear from you, then?"

Jones paused. The woman seemed ready to leave a bit earlier than most new clients. She hadn't asked the usual questions clients honestly expected to have answered without any actual investigation. _What do you think is going on? What's the likelihood you'll succeed? Would you kill somebody for money – just asking for a friend?_

She glanced at the contract. "Sure," she said. "I've got your number here. I'll check on it this afternoon, but if you don't hear from me –"

"Then in a few days," the client smiled, standing and offering her hand. She gripped Jess's offered palm with that fervent lock preachers and politicians bring to it, and Jessica couldn't resist powering her own grip slightly.

"You _are_ a superhero, just like the news said," the woman grinned. She nodded, turned, and left the detective staring after her.

 _What the hell?_ Jess thought. _Well ... fine. Give me a chance to try out some more toys I bought with Nelson's coin._ Reaching under the desk, she yanked a duffle bag full of PI gear to her feet, and slung it over her shoulder.

* * *

Stepping out the side door into an alley, Trish was so absorbed looking over the costume Nellie Greer had prepared for her she didn't notice the man standing in the shadows. She looked superhero chic in the padded leather outfit colored "Luke Cage" yellow with blue trim, and dark blue boots. A matching blue cowl was over her head, with "eyebrows" in Cage yellow above the eyeholes. The body armor was flexible, but tough, with the added advantage of claws she could extend or withdraw with a stylized flick of her wrists that Greer had practiced with her for an hour.

The fact she could flip out a grappling hook as well was icing on her cake.

She leaned back into a fighting stance when the man cleared his throat, her eyes wide. Even as taken as she'd been by the costume, she should have realized he was there, especially given her now-heightened senses. He was leaning against the wall's splatter of graffiti.

"Disappointment," he murmured. "And vulnerability."

She stared. He was very much over-dressed for a back alley, business casual under some sort of open military cloth overcoat. "I – what?"

"I feel your disappointment. More importantly, I understand it. All too well." He waved his arm in the fog, causing it to sway like water where his arm swept, glowing tendrils of amber light following. "First, they are disappointed in us. Then we are disappointed in them for it. And the bitterness drops into the blood like poison, working its way slowly," he pointed his finger, whirling a circle of gold that began to glow brighter, "into the heart, destroying us cell by cell from within." He frowned. "I'm afraid I've no experience with vulnerability, though."

Trish stared, then spat out, "Have we met?"

"We know each other, but –" A finger snap caused the light to fly out, dim and die away. "This is the first we've met." He stepped through the fog, his eyes faintly glowing blue. "Daimon Hellstrom. I'm a fan."

"We know each other but we've never met?"

He smirked, spread his hands wide, walking toward her slowly, the long overcoat flaring around him as he stepped. "Well, time is relative. Eternity, for example, is related to me, by birth, and I can tell you it is much less linear and scattered than you might think. But what I truly mean is that we understand each other."

Trish shifted her weight forward on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. "Yeah, look, Leisure Suit Larry, I don't know what you're on, but this would be a good time to just stop moving." She flexed her hands, the claws springing down and locking into place.

He did stop walking, but not smirking, nodding at her weapons and outfit. "Nellie Greer's work? I can offer you something more appropriate to this century than such comic cosplay. I'd be pleased to do so."

"Don't care. Bye, now." She began backing away warily, scanning the rooftops with a view toward leaping, and then made the jump.

And was frozen in mid-air.

After two quick breaths in which she realized she wasn't just dizzy, she stared down to where Daimon stood, face impassive.

"Powers and tech are one thing," he said. "Well – two, I suppose, but to paraphrase Asimov's Third Law, any sufficiently advanced tech is indistinguishable from powers. But magic – true magic – that Isaac never really grasped in its distinction from powers."

Only a lifetime of acting and handling live call-ins on-air let Trish keep apparent calm, even as her heart hammered at her chest. "Speaking of power, I've got a dozen powered friends waiting for me right now. They're gonna head this way any second and you don't want them to find you restraining me."

He laughed. "Come now, Trish, you have no powered friends. That's part of your problem." He tilted his head slightly and she slid comfortably back to the ground. "You're going it alone precisely because you – who have faced the disappointment of trying hard, only to be _called a disappointment_ by those you love – find yourself desperately seeking your rightful place all on your own now. Well –" he shrugged. "Up to now. Up to meeting me."

"Okay, you have the worst pick-up game in the history of ever," she scoffed. She turned, began walking toward the street, slowed, and finally turned back around. "What? You're not stopping me this time?"

"No. Last time you quite correctly pointed out I was restraining you. If you want my help, it will be freely given, and not forced upon you. I believe of all things in freedom. As did my father. Whom I have disappointed, as he disappointed his father before him."

"I don't need help."

"Well, you'd at least find it useful if not necessary," he said. "Suppose those feline reflexes of yours were – I won't say enhanced, that's gotten a bad name on the street. Fully in bloom, let's say, like a flower."

"I'm not that delicate."

"I'm not suggesting you are. A cactus has lovely flowers, but more thorns." He chuckled. His hands were slowly revolving in a circle within which a ball of fire grew. "Catch."

He flipped it at her so fast, her new impulses caused her to grab at it before she'd thought. It passed through her grip, though, and melted into her, suffusing her with a surge of power and pleasure she hadn't felt since Will Simpson's combat ability enhancement inhaler ran dry.

She smiled, suddenly lost in pure sensation, and sprang with a power she hadn't felt before, rising two, three stories higher than she ever had, only to spiral back down and land in a three-point stance. Pure animal strength was supplementing her super agility.

She caught her breath still staring at the pavement, then rose upright slowly. "That … was …."

"Evolution," Daimon said. "The next step. Your IGH enhancements melded with my magic. But don't worry, I said I wouldn't force it on you, and the magic is gone in three, two …. Now." He smiled. "Yours back for the asking."

She sensed the loss. "Okay, fair enough. But why? I mean – why me? Honestly?" She ran her hands over her arms chasing an odd chill away.

His eyes narrowed, the blue heat inside tapped up. "Because we are both on our own. Because your relative innocence fascinates me. Because your beauty enchants me." He leaned back on his heels. "Honest enough for you?"

"Yeah," she said wryly. "Sounds like we're back to pick-up lines."

He tilted his head, focus suddenly blunted by internal voices, before looking back up. "Apologies. Must dash. But just as I won't force magic on you, neither would I so much as annoy you with my personal interest. They are two separate matters, each your choice. You may have either, or neither." He winked. "Like you, I am used to rejection."

She would have rolled her eyes, but he made the last sound like a badge of honor, and she frowned instead. He was intriguing. And a bit good looking. No, he was drop dead stunning, both through a chiseled physique, and the electric tension she sensed between a desire to move closer to her and a more powerful discipline that kept him in place.

But when she opened her mouth to say more, he was gone. No pyrotechnics, no sound, he simply – was not there anymore.

Except in her head, where his image would also have faded, but for her will that snared it and began rolling it around, toying with it like a ball of string.

* * *

"What's Kunar?" she said.

Lawson had just showered off the nightmare sweat after a nap. He wrapped a towel around his middle, sat on the bed, and looked at the floor. "Why do you ask?"

The liquid smoke who was Cindy Kemper sighed. "You know everything about me, even my real name –" she cut off his protest with her fingers on his lips and a quick kiss. "I know. I know, baby, security. But when you have these nightmares, you mumble that word."

He sighed, but he was paying plenty for the "girlfriend experience" – why not go ahead and have it. "Province in Afghanistan. Lost thirteen good men there one day. We didn't have the resources to get to them out of there. I begged everybody else. I even pulled a string with a CIA contact, Quartermain, see if we could get S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D., Avengers, anybody on it." He scuffed out a harsh bark of a laugh. "Too busy on press junkets, I'm betting. You got any idea how much we spent on – let's just say S.H.I.E.L.D., to start with – and what did we get? Thirteen dead Marines, eighteen to thirty-three years old, hung out to dry in Afghanistan. Dead in Kunar."

She was rubbing his neck, his shoulders, with practiced expertise. "So, when Keaton goes from mayor to president, he can shut them down, spend the money better, right?"

"Not that easy," Lawson sighed. "We have to prepare the public for that. And it's not just money, it's the dependency. Right now, those glamor boys have got 'em in their pocket. We have to break that down. We have to start small now and …" he shrugged. "By the time Steven Keaton _is_ POTUS, then they'll be ready to back us."

She nodded, running a line of kisses over her shoulder. "You need to relax again, baby?"

"In a bit," he said, laying back and rolling her tight soft frame into his arms. "So, tell me something, Cindy – always been curious. How'd you choose the name 'Amber Diamond' when you joined Manhattan Ribeye?"

* * *

"Spending all your time in news conferences, these days?" Eddy Costa asked.

Foggy Nelson turned, startled, as he slid from a shadow in the hallway. The press was still buzzing in the next room. "Just today," he said. "But third one today, so – yeah. Sorry if you were on Team Halberstam. Although aren't all you cops Team Keaton?"

"Some are, some aren't. Some don't care. Me, I'm a free agent." He folded his arms. "This isn't about Halberstam."

He nodded. "What can I do for you, Detective?"

"Just wanting a chat with your client."

"What?" He frowned. "Melinda Halberstam? What about?"

"No trouble or nothing. Just wondering about the timing on this divorce. And the way she had Jones handle it."

"Okay, first of all, the timing had to do with private matters that are none of your business."

"Sure became the business of the entire city, awful fast."

"Tough breaks for the Congressman, then," he went on. "As for my investigator, she had nothing to do with the timing either. Or with this going public. She did a great job getting him served and that was that."

Costa grunted. "Private matters?"

"Yeah, a lot of things are surprisingly private around this town," Foggy said. "Like, I've heard rumors about some task force you're on. Some connection to the gods. But no one wants to say much."

"Gods?" Costa glanced away. "Really?"

"Well, the Norse called Thor a god. And I don't doubt Tony Stark would insist on the title for himself."

"Never met 'em. Look, just asking you to ask. I'd like to talk to the lady. I don't even need your permission, here, I'm trying to –"

Costa's cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it, frowning on the number, then answered with a simple "yes?"

Foggy tapped his fingers on the wall at his hip.

Dinah Madani never wasted time in a phone call and immediately snapped into Costa's ear.

"You said your two undercovers saw Lady Sherlock meet at Josie's with Warbucks, right?"

He instinctively stepped back and away from Nelson. "Yeah. So?"

"So, Lady Sherlock emailed Tesla HQ. She wants a meet. Preferably Tesla himself."

Costa rolled his eyes at all the code names. "When?"

"Tesla said he'd work it, get back to us."

Costa thought, then said. "Ai'right. No telling what that's about, but … ai'right." He snapped off the call and pointed at Nelson. "You gonna ask, or do I just drop by her place?"

"Tell me what it's about, and we'll see."

Costa sighed. "Rumor is there's more behind this divorce than a hooker and a bank account."

"Specifically?"

"It has to do with your nutty friends."

Foggy chuckled. "You gotta be more specific."

"I wish I could."

"So without telling me why, you want me to help you go after Luke and Danny and Jessica?"

"Nelson, look – I never said a thing about going after them. Hell, you and both know, I'm one of the few cops who doesn't want to shoot those friends of yours in the head. And right now – far as I know – it's more about this bunch of misted-up kids who think they're heroes. I don't want to see those kids hurt, and I don't think Jones or the others do. I need their help. If I had more than that, I'd tell you."

"Then talk to me when you do." Nelson turned and walked down the hall.

* * *

Miranda Pritchett's apartment building was a crime scene.

An ambulance was pulling away just as Jessica walked up, and a small crowd of bored vultures had circled beyond the yellow tape. Jess glanced around, taking in the relatively large number of uniformed officers, and knew whatever had gone down was major.

Flipping her hoodie over her hair, Jessica turned, drifting back from the crowd, head down. She walked down a couple streets, finding a tight alley. Visibility limited from the street, nobody there – _perfect._

Gripping her duffel full of toys tightly by the strap, she made the leap up to a fire escape, then scampered up to make a quick hop onto the roof. From there she made her way back to look down on the scene, slinging her bag to her feet.

She dug in, pulling out something that looked like a radar gun with a trailing ear phone. Plugging herself in, she waved the parabolic microphone a bit, snippets of conversation coming through. She frowned with grudging approval. _Looks like they weren't kidding about the pick-up range running end zone to end zone on a football field._

She shifted the focus slightly, aiming at two uniforms. The monocular view finder gave her a visual amplification of 800 percent. The two cops looked like the number ten, a doughnut shaped Latino listening to the know-it-all voice of a smirking pasty face weed of an Anglo standing on his left.

"No big mystery," Smirky was saying. "They're talking about ten, twelve grams of that Purple Haze shit up in there."

Doughnut's face scrunched up.

 _Oh, great, he's puzzled. Now I get to hear Smirky –_

Rambling on with delight: "Think that freak-ass MGH, but a Geeb twist for a party vibe. Effects are temporary. All the kids are nuts over it, though. Fucking mutants, not enough their creepy asses are on the street, they gotta turn our kids into goddamn freaks, if only for a night."

"So, couple eight-balls, plus, in there?" Doughnut whistled.

"Pure," Smirky nodded. "So just do a wholesale cut, then cap it, you move four, five pieces out the door. Break _that_ shit up, aerosol it like the kids like, we're talking maybe fifteen to twenty pieces' worth out on the street."

The other cop squeezed his finger-tips together and rubbed them, eyebrows raised in question.

"Cheap. Considering one gram of that crap turns a kid into Thor for a night. Sometimes sixteen, twenty-four hours." He shrugged and sniffed. "Course, then the dumb shit's all kinda fucked up on the burn down, but he'll be right back looking for his dealer after that." He nodded toward the apartment building. "Figure that's what got little Miss Pritchett in there good and dead. Dealing the Haze." He spit on the sidewalk. "Turf war among the mutants. Christ. All we need."

 _Then why'd they leave all that product in there?_ Jessica frowned, the hairs on the back of her neck stiffening. _Another powered, somebody who doesn't like the traffic, would take it and toss it in the Hudson. A rival would be cutting it up right now._

"Well, those Avengers, they're all right," Doughnut was saying. "It's these street freaks, they're the problem. What they're saying on the news, anyway."

Jessica had already started to pull back and away, but as the microphone swung 'round, she picked up a familiar voice. _Eddy Costa._

Looking up from the view finder, she found him, and zeroed in.

Costa ambled past Smirky and the Donut, the disdain on his face plain in the spare three seconds he glanced at them. He was talking into the cell phone pressed hard against his right ear. "No, I don't need Pryce Cheng's fucking help right now, I've _never_ needed that asshole's help, so who the hell hired him to be all the fuck over an NYPD crime scene?" He stopped, jamming his left hand in his trouser pocket. "He knows he's turning everything over to me, right?"

 _Holy shit._ Jessica leaned back, glancing around as she stowed her gear. Zipping the duffle fast, she slung it over her shoulder as she headed to the other side of the roof, leapt, and was gone.

* * *

Jessica was on her way back into the building, packaged whiskey under arm, when her cell buzzed, rattling in her pocket. She yanked it out and frowned at the blocked number, putting the phone to her ear. "Yeah?"

A woman chuckled back. "You're hard to convince. I was hoping you'd have left town already."

Jess sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. Who is this?"

"Well, I'd say just a friend, but that would be a lie. So, I'll just pass this along. You're out of your depth and you're messing things up for your betters."

Jessica boiled inside but maintained a steady breath into the phone. "Hang on. Just marking time. You'll have thirty seconds. Start with a name or it's fifteen seconds. Go."

"No name but by now I'm sure you've sketched my face," the woman laughed. "I _let_ you see it on the roof, you know that, right? A friendly warning."

Jessica fought with her breathing, tilting the phone's speaker away from her mouth to give no tension away. She was pacing down the hall, her vision tunneled so dark around the edges she almost ran over the blind girl, who scooted out of the way at the last minute. Jess mouthed, "Sorry, honey," then realized how dumb that was given the child couldn't see.

The voice snaking through her head wasn't the very confident American female on the phone. He was supremely confident, and English. _Stupid Jessica. My stupid stupid little girl Jessica._

"Silent? Silent is good, street rat," the woman hissed. "You should have pursued that strategy to begin with. But you're a distraction now. You washed out of the Avengers, and you weren't good enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. or S.W.O.R.D., and even on your own, you're too unbalanced to keep from screwing everything up around you. We have enemies, Ms. Jones, and we can't have you giving them fuel for their insane arguments. You have twenty-four hours to get out of town and never be heard of again, or we'll take you out and make sure you're never heard of again." The voice went bemused. "And if you see your old boyfriend Cage, tell him he's next."

The call ended.

Jess had reached her office. She glanced up, wondering was Oscar was doing – then shook her head.

 _This is my shit to deal with._

She sat the bag of booze on her desk and went back out.

* * *

"I saw the video. Amazing job." Lawson said flatly. He scowled at the warehouse, clearly despising the need to be there.

Turk Barrett nodded. "Who'da thought a sexy bitch could be a murderous sniper?"

"Well, any number of very dead men, for a start," Lawson sighed. "But she missed."

"As instructed!" Turk bristled.

"Yes," Lawson shrugged, shoving a thick envelope over the table. "As agreed." He looked over Barrett's shoulder, and asked to the distance, ""The beat-downs outside the Excelsior? Still on track?"

Turk turned, his gaze flicking through the shadowed area, taking in the stony Aryan Brotherhood vibe of the three Watchdogs lurking there. "Been our pleasure," one of them answered.

"Yeah, we all know about your 'pleasures', Beckwith," Barrett scowled. The Watchdogs made him angry, off of pure instinct. He squared himself in his chair again, facing Lawson. "You know these assholes are bad for business, right, counselor?"

The lawyer cocked his head. "That'll be all, Turk."

He waited as Barrett rose, steaming, and walked from the room. The attorney didn't even watch him go. His fingers hammered text into a laptop in front of him on the table, then he sighed. He spun the computer around to a frozen frame of Spider-Woman slinging down from a ledge onto the street.

"Now, then," Lawson said, looking at the men remaining. "Tell me about this new 'Spider-Woman', this girl."

"Had Larry and Gene here look into it," the leader answered again, "Thought you were just after the street freaks?"

Lawson's voice snapped like an icicle. "One, she seems to be a bridge between the costumes and the streets, and two, leave strategy to your betters." He rubbed his eyes. "Okay, so we have _another_ spiderfreak in town. But not one under Stark's umbrella yet. Let's figure out how to use that, not run away from it."

"Speaking of which," Beckwith said, "what if this call 'dollface' gave Jones spooks her enough she actually _does_ run? Didn't think that was the idea here."

Lawson smirked. "She won't run." He tapped his head. "She's got no place to go."


	4. Ep 4: AKA Hellcat Rising

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 4: AKA Hellcat Rising**

* * *

"This is so not the time, buddy."

Blond, pale, and chill-handsome leaned on his elbow over the bar, turned toward her. He smiled again, ice eyes focused on hers. "But I'm asking for just a few moments, Ms. Jones."

She shrugged, then asked into her glass before the whiskey hit her lips. "What's this about?"

"I'm here on behalf of your sister."

She held the glass in place, then tilted it, drinking deeply, before clapping it to the bar. "And you are?"

"Daimon Hellstrom."

"Your name is …" she dragged it out with incredulity. She turned her stare at last from the mirror at Josie's bar, turning to look at him instead. " _Daimon Hellstrom_?"

"Yes," he sighed. "The thing I wanted to –"

"You know you can petition a court and get that changed, right?"

"Amusing."

"No, seriously. I got a guy. Foggy Nelson." She paused, then half-shrugged. "He's better than his name." She picked the glass up again, tilting the lip toward him. "I mean, not like you got a lot of room to snicker."

"You don't know who I am?"

"Lead guitarist for the Screaming Norgie Fascist Black Metal Devils? Help me out here, I'm just guessing."

"Close," he grinned. "Son of Lucifer."

"Seriously, you are _not_ the son of Satan. I've seen the photo of every man involved in production decisions for the DCEU and you don't look like a single one of them." She cupped the glass between her palms and muttered, "Weird. Never thought Trish would actually go death metal with this superhero bullshit."

He chuckled but refused again to rise to Jessica's baiting. She was seriously starting to hate this man. "Well, her tastes are not the same as yours," he said, eyes going over Jessie's boxy clothes and battered jacket. "But at the core, you'd be surprised how much you two are alike."

"Yeah," Jess said dryly, "she had a director for a couple episodes of _It's Patsy_ who ran that line by us looking for a hard candy three-way."

"And you broke his arm," he smiled.

"She told you?"

"No, but I do my research. I like to know who I'm dealing with."

"Wow, okay, you know what?" she shoved the stool back, hands flat on the bar. "This just got too creepy, even for me. Who, by the way, you don't really know, and won't be dealing with."

"IGH," he murmured.

She froze, refusing to look at him. And refusing, as much as it hurt, to reach for her glass. "You're IGH?"

"Oh, hell no," he said. "But I thought you should know she and I visited an old building of theirs. Thing is I see things that were. Even sense things that might come to be, but that's a discussion for another time. I've been schooling her in the ways of the occult, raising powers within her, similar if faint echoes of my own. We went to this IGH facility, abandoned, locked down, because she insisted. Because she won't let go what happened to you."

"Okay, kudos for dialing back from creepy to just boring," Jessica said. "But just because I don't go around wearing the tee-shirt doesn't mean I've not been there and done that."

"Alone, though."

Jessica felt hollow, lungs dry.

"Ms. Jones?"

"Get out."

"Two things, Ms. Jones –"

"Seriously, 666. 10-42 your ass out of here."

He sighed, running a long finger up the side of his face, bracing his chin in his palm. "I offered the information as a peace offering," he said quietly. "A way to open your mind just a bit to consider something that might bring you and your sister back together. Understanding –"

She pointed at the door. "I - you really don't hear words coming out of my mouth? Is that the problem right now?"

"Your powers, Ms. Jones. I know how you discovered them. I know when you first used them around anyone but Trish. And so, I know what your anger has made you forget." He leaned forward. "You weren't the only one of the sisters who'd suffered abuse. And your powers, their discovery, using them, all began out of an instinct to protect her, which is good. But you were the only one of the two you with the powers to feel even a little safe." He sat back again. "And did you ever think about how even more helpless that made her feel?"

Jessica's eyes were incendiary, her voice graveyard chill. "I said. Get. The fuck. Out. Now."

"Now?" He eased back in his chair, a same infuriatingly, supreme confident smirk on his face. "As you wish." Shooting an odd chill through her, he tapped her wrist.

And was gone. Like a snap.

Jessica stared into the empty chair. She reached for her glass, stopped, and leaned forward, staring into the mirror over the bar. She rubbed at her wrist, frowning, feeling an odd, small burn there that died away.

* * *

An armored car shuddered to a stop, the back doors popping open. Trish crouched on a rooftop across the street, paying the truck little mind, focused instead on the club two doors down from where the guards now got out and looked around expectantly, impatiently, apparently waiting to be met.

Trish held herself, staring up into the stars, wondering if they still ran movies on the side of a building where she and Jess would slip off to watch them. Shrugging, she looked back down at the street.

The Excelsior's exterior openly boasted of its new status. Several posters advertised The Loners, and the times of every upcoming downbeat. There were posters of Daisy Johnson, a Che knockoff of the Obama "Hope" poster reading: "RESIST". Someone had spray-painted "Jesus Was a Mutant" on the wall.

And then there were the Jessica posters. Trish winced. Her sister's mug shot, from the assault on Pryce Chen, had been become an icon. Just the photo – reprinted, enlarged, or painted versions of it – turned into posters, some Photoshopped into an imitation of the famous Che poster.

Trish had followed The Loners since they'd shown up in the underground club scene. She'd quietly called what few friends she had left in New York radio, pushing them to play their self-produced LP _Street Powered_. A few stations got permission from LA to give the song "Bitva" a few spins, checking the market, and the buzz was building.

Now they were regular headliners at The Excelsior. Slightly better digs, _the_ scene for the younger powereds, the inhumans, the mutated, the enhanced, wandering the streets in the midst of post-Incident suspicion and hate, looking for a haven.

She rolled her shoulders, not even conscious it was an affectation mimicking her sister. That weird sense Daimon had given her, one of heightened focus, of preternatural situational awareness, set in.

Her eyes shot to a slightly built Asian man in his late teens or early twenties shifting back and forth on his feet. He swallowed, staring at the open doors of the armored truck. The guards were chatting, laughing, only so often glancing around for threats.

The top of the thick, pulpy bags of money was unwinding and -

A bound three-inch deep wad of bills flashed from the bag to the kid's palm.

Instinctively, barely hearing the gasps from people moving down the street, she did a quick, agile series of sling shot moves down window ledges to take the ground in a three point stance, hardly feeing the weight of her fall in the boots of her costume. The only people who didn't notice the yellow cat suited woman performing super acrobatics seemed to be the security guards.

"And Jessica thinks we don't need more superheroes on the ground," Trish muttered.

She began walking toward the kid quickly. He had started to turn, started to stuff this in his pocket, when she snapped her hand deftly at his and snatched the money, flipping it quickly up and directly back into the sack.

"Hell of a shot." The kid frowned. "Three points. Easy." He lifted his hand again, the money stack scuffing back up and hurtling toward him. At the last possible breath, her hand flashed up and grabbed it.

"Sir?" she called out, walking toward the guards. "Sir, this fell out, I think?"

It took them a few moments to process that they'd wholly failed to protect the cash, and a few more to take in the fact they were talking to costumed woman whose stance screamed confidence. But even before the Incident, this sort of thing was that sort of thing New Yorkers just rolled with. Once past it all the guards were full of thanks and made a point to go stand by the open doors while waiting for the pickup.

The kid scowled at her as she ambled back. "Okay, look." He popped his chest with his fist. "You got skills, but trust me, you do _not_ want to be messing with Telekinian."

"Great. You got powers and you're using them to – wait. What? Tele _kin_ ian? Really? What kind of name is _that_?"

"All right," he nodded, rolling onto the balls of his feet and then back on his heels. "So I'm, uh – working on it. But look, why'd you have bust a jack move by a fellow freak who's just trying to make rent?"

"Number one, drop the 'freak' shit, and number two, what are you gonna do for rent when those temp powers you bought wear off?"

"Oh, you think I'm just misted up on the Haze, right? Well, I'm not. My skills are in my genes."

She frowned. "You're an inhuman."

He rolled on, "And I am not throwing away my shot."

"I'm just saying –"

"Hey, lady!" His volume went up. "I am young, I am scrappy, and I am hungry. And I'm _not_ throwing away my shot."

"I don't care if you – wait wait wait. Hold up. Did you seriously just paraphrase _Hamilton_?"

His eyes rolled to the corners, back and forth, nervous and looking even younger now. "Okay. So, I like my theater. So?"

"So, oh, my God, I love _Hamilton_." She folded her arms and smiled. "You think they'll make a film of it?"

"Hear it's in the works," he brightened, then grimaced as if tricked. "You know you just cost me rent, right? Hey, don't look at me like that. You try working while you're trying to get control of these powers. Sometimes they just go off. Lost three straight jobs, boss always says I make the place seem haunted. Bad for business."

"What's your real name, Tele- _can't-call-you-that_ -ian?"

He was staring at her, looking her over, but not with any apparent sexual interest. He seemed to be comparing her to notes in his head. "You're her. The new one. Blonde. Cat suit. Fast and slick and kinda spooky. I saw the moves, and I sure as shit feel the vibe."

"What's your name?" she insisted.

"Ian Soo," he said. "Heard you're pretty good in a fight too, like kung fu or something?"

"Krav maga." She sighed. "Kid, you're not good at this street thief thing, you know that? So you got – what -" her eyebrows shot up "—telekinesis, that's it, right? And so from that, you go with Telekinian?"

The kid's eyes flaring, he squared off, fists clenching and unclenching. "Yeah, well, most of the cool names are taken. Hell, most of 'em are copyrighted."

"You mean trademarked," she laughed. "And this isn't about the name, Ian. Just –superbad's not really your thing, is it? When did your powers …."

"Terrigenesis? Not long ago," he said, easing back. "And yeah, that was an impulse thing. I got rent coming up fast." He blew both cheeks full, then exhaled hard. "First time I tried that."

She nodded. "You here for The Loners?"

"Yeah, but maybe this is a sign I should save the ticket money for rent," he laughed, good naturedly.

She smiled. "Come on, kid. My treat."

He started to protest when a pale weed of a man with a stringy goatee and eyes of burned glass came out of the shadows.

"Hey," he said, brushing past Trish and addressing the male in the "couple." "Don't want to take in that show if you ain't beaming, am I right?" He offered his fist for Ian to bump. Soo folded his arms instead.

"Pete," he grunted. "Still selling?"

"Yeah but you're never buying, brother. Need to loosen up."

"Don't think so."

"Dude, we're talking Purple Haze." He held up a little canister the size and type used to spray lens cleaner on glasses. "Great buzz and it makes you killdozer ready if shit breaks out in there." The dealer tilted his head, jaw dropped theatrically, and spread his hands. "Just four Abes buys you in, all super as shit."

Soo laughed, glancing at Trish. "We're good. Anyway, Excelsior's total cease-fire, you know the rules. Nothing breaks out in there."

"I heard you're all perm good now, brother, but you speaking for Lady Cosplay, here?" His grin widened, his gaze oiling down Trish's body. "Whaddya say, ComicCon? You don't want go full Purple Haze, I got some Blue Beam. Deuce a hit."

Trish folded her arms, resting her weight on her left foot, staring at him with a smile that would freeze a shark but blew right past Pete.

He turned his attention back to Ian Soo. "Get her a piece, man, Blue Beam!" He ran his thumb under his nose and sniffed. "Bump of pearl." He leaned over and muttered into Ian's ear, "With a slice of Shanghai shade, Inner Demon stamp, guaranteed FOB. And a nice acid glaze topping off the high. The coke makes her crazy, the Shade makes her lazy, and that acid keeps her hazy, so no problems before, no problems after, you know what I'm saying, brother?"

Soo shook his head, disgusted, and started to move away. The dealer gripped his upper arm hard, pulling a dime bag from his pocket. That hand was coming up when Trish moved.

Her arms blurred, one palm smashing against the back of the dealer's elbow, pulling back enough not to break his arm, but with enough force to break his hold on Soo. Pete's scream of pain and the instinctive fold of his body to wrap it around his wounded arm was met by her elbow snapping into his chin. Her other hand smacked his forehead with the heel of her palm, sending him spinning to the pavement.

Ian stared down at the writhing bundle of date-rape drug dealer, then glanced coolly over Trish's shoulder. "Oh, hey, Max."

She turned and took in the muscled tank of a woman who moved up from behind her. Max was a walking advertisement for quality tattoos and a poster girl for lack of sympathy as she stared down at Pete, deep brown eyes flashing in her ebony face. "I fucking told you," she spat out, "to take that shit someplace else, 'fore somebody got hurt here at the Ex." The crowd that had already started to gather, murmuring while staring at Trish, now stepped back slightly.

"She broke my goddamned arm!" he whined.

"What did I just say? Somebody got hurt!" Max had crouched down to look Pete over, and shook her head. "Anyway, she didn't break it. Plus, you assaulted Ian first. I saw the whole thing."

"I _what?_ Check the security camera, bitch," Pete said. Instruments began hurling disconsonant sounds at each other inside the club.

She stood. "Yeah, that's kinda been on the blink here lately. Now bust your ass outta here before I bust up your face."

A pretty young girl with a tangle of brown hair stepped gracefully around the dealer, a Svelte Organic protein shake in one hand, while popping fists with Max with the other. "Hey, _droogie_."

Behind her, Trish heard someone mutter, "Toldja you shoulda fired Pete's ass, long time ago, Denny. Now we got crazy cat lady to deal with."

Trish turned to see two young men, one glowering at her while the obvious leader of the two eyed Mattie's ass as she walked by, apparently oblivious. Oddly, his look that started out lustful turned clinical, puzzled, as he measured her body with his eyes.

"Hey, Mattie," Max called out. "Head on in, dollface." When the girl glanced at Trish, uniquely in this crowd it was without astonishment or awe. More of a quiet respect that was almost comradery.

The leader of the two street toughs glared at Trish. "What are you looking at, crazy cat?"

"You think cat lady here is _bezoomy_ , stick around for a piece of _my_ cray-cray." Max stepped around her, pointing at him. "Now, if don't _want_ my _bezoomy-bezoomy,_ then you and your sad ass _droogies_ get your ass outta here, Haynes. I told you before –"

"Yeah, yeah," he turned, waving her off as he did, and strutted down the sidewalk following by his panting lapdog. "Money down here is _hen-korm_ , anyway, against what I can score up at Hunter."

"It _is_ chicken-feed," Max confirmed, "cuz you're selling chicken- _shit_." She twisted her head and looked at Trish, saying quietly, "Watch out for that one. Denny Haynes." She pointed at his retreating back. "Turned into a real cape chaser."

"A what?" Trish frowned.

"Cape chaser. Likes to … you know … girls in capes." She paused, then raised her voice in exasperation. "He wants to fuck powered ladies."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," Trish said. "But … why?"

Max shrugged. "Why does any particular man do anything, hun? He just started going after every gifted and powered and inhuman he can, while back, like he's taste-testing 'em." She chuckled.

"And they let him?"

"Probably slips 'em roofies. Or for them, super-roofies, or –" Max shrugged again. "Hey, the hell do I know? But I heard Jessica Drew blew him off when she was in town."

"Good. She should've venom blasted the prick."

After turning to stare with open hostility at three tatted-up thugs across the street who stared back at her impassively, the bouncer looked back at Trish. "Any chance of you sticking around tonight?" She glanced at Ian. "On the house. Telekinian as your guest, if you want?"

Trish looked at Ian. "You coming?"

The three turned and made their way to the door. Max chuckled.

"What?" Trish asked.

"I heard you did good work. Good to see it in action."

"Christ, does everybody know who I am?" she replied.

"You kidding, doll? You gonna be the hit of the set, walking in there right now."

"Great," she groused. But she was smiling. It felt good.

The crowd, older teens and younger twenties, parted for her she came in, the buzz picking up just as The Loners started into the springy, sharp riffs of their cover of Bowie's "Rebel, Rebel". The lead singer flashed a grin, and signaled the band to re-wrap the riff, using the extension to exclaim, "Shit, dudes, look what the cat drug in! That's you, by the way, Telekinian. Ai'right, my _bezoomy droogies_ , don't worry about those Watchdog fuckers! Leaving here tonight, we got us a watch cat straight out of hell." She pointed at Trish. "This one's for you, _koshka_!"

The cheers swirled around her.

It felt very good.

* * *

Jessica got up from her desk, stretched, went to the window behind, the neck of a bottle of Maker's Mark in her fist. She stared down five stories to the street, watching cars pass through the slightly less congested traffic of 2 AM.

The expandable file folder was skinny now, contents strewn across her desktop – things the distantly devoted uncle had gathered from the girl's room. A lot of paper, class yearbook, photos of her, photos by her – her hobby. Jessica had drawn a profile in her head from what was there.

Rebecca Cross. Blonde & blue / lanky build / hometown girl pretty. Still a bit adolescent gawky, shy of the camera, which was ironic, in her case.

Decent grades ( _better than mine, but then she probably cared_ ). Good kid. Went a little wild when she got to high school – _who didn't_? Nothing much. Discovered weed and calmed down. Ultimately, High School Rebecca was more disinterested than rebellious.

Not a prom queen. Not a partier. Photography Club, that's what she had held onto, and the samples found in her room were arresting. They captured disquieting nuances in normalcy with a disaffected gaze.

Jessica glanced at the cork board mounted behind her desk. She'd taken down the photos of those execs and producers responsible for the DCEU disasters, abandoning her "busy work" practice work, now that real jobs were suddenly on top of her. In their place was the sketch drawing she'd worked up of the woman who shot at her the previous night; a photograph of Miranda Pritchett left with her by Miranda's sister; and photos Samuel Cross had given her, pictures taken by his missing niece.

Jess plopped into her chair, turned to face the board, and pulled a legal pad onto her lap along with a Museum of Modern Art postcard she'd found in the accordion file. Simple enough, just MOMA, sent to Rebecca three weeks earlier from a "Mattie". _Writes like a teenager. But who the hell sends postcards anymore, especially teenagers? And what's with all the webs she drew between the letters? Goth, much?_

She tapped the pad with a pen, thinking, looking over the little bits of data mined from the card. An address. A few names mentioned: Ian, Laney, Bolshi – _what the fuck, "Bolshi"? –_ and Mac _,_ sending their regards, "All the crew with Annie Jones, but most especially me, of course." _Me_ was formed from a heart shape for the "M" and another web, trailed over from "especially" and wrapped around the "me." References to sushi, and a promise by Franklin to "knit something special" for Rebecca. "P.S. – when ya gonna surprise me?"

Jess spooled into Tor, ran "Annie Jones Society" through DuckDuckGo, and turned up the site for a floating club. She spun through the photos: late teens, early twenties, hitting different spots in and around. Mostly Hell's Kitchen, Midtown, Greenwich Village. She spotted someone familiar in one picture – not a face, but a face on a tee-shirt. She zoomed in.

 _Oh, hell no._

It was her mug shot.

Jessica sighed, and then ran back through the photos, picking out shirts, posters, swag, all sub-Avengers level powereds personality cult bullshit that made her blood boil. It wasn't the people – Luke Cage, Dare Devil, Iron Fist, others. She spotted Spider-Woman graphics, the more photorealistic looking oddly younger than what she recalled seeing in the past.

And – others. Lots of others. Powered, gifted, but – she took some savage satisfaction in noting – no Avengers.

 _Good people. Mostly. But we're not like rock stars or shit, I don't care if you're talking powered or gifted or S.H.I.E.L.D. or …. Well – okay, Daisy Johnson really is a rock star, I'll give 'em that one._

 _But the only names in this file, the only people I can find who seemed to care about her, were in this Annie Jones Society. Jesus, did everybody this girl know move to New York City? Or did she meet them while visiting here, and when?_

No class trips, at least no evidence of any. Unemployed mom. Pop in the can, seven years on a Class D. Kiting checks. Jess gave the floor above an unconscious glance, thinking about how much work she'd had Oscar do dummying up documents for her. She slid whiskey down her throat without even being aware of it.

Rebecca's uncle claimed "distance," which appeared to include finances, since Rebecca worked part-time all the way through high school. No other connection to the city.

Jessica took another shot of whiskey, swirling it in her mouth as she thought. _Had to have visited somebody first to meet this crowd later,_ she decided. _Maybe Uncle Sam's not as distant as he claims._

Otherwise … _Tap tap tap …_ a B/B+ student with A's in the arts, silently moving to the standard issue diploma. Then a full-time job at the Lago Rite Aid store. Receipts for pro photo-development costs, and photos to show for them. Rebecca obviously continued to spend her off time photographing the town and its people. People who barely noticed her in the shadows or stared from the corners of their eyes.

And then – three months later, she was gone. No two weeks' notice for the job. No goodbye notes for her mother, although that woman was estranged enough she didn't even report her daughter missing for a week. Uncle Samuel said the girl didn't have a credit card, and there was no sign of one for her in any database.

Lago police took a report; did nothing. NYPD took a report; did nothing. At least the latter had rather solid reasons: backlog, and no reason to think New York City had anything to do with her disappearance, if there really even was one.

Nothing else in the file … _but_.

Jessica looked back up at the poster board, where she'd fixed a page with a line chart connecting a few names and organizations she'd drawn after three hours online.

She glanced to the floor, where she'd dropped an alligator clipped print-out of a DoJ National Criminal Justice Reference Service report on the Watchdogs as a terror group. The self-anointed defenders against … her "kind". Next to that report? Another printed pdf, this one from the Southern Poverty Law Center, dealing with the Phineas Faithful Dominion, vigilantes with that special evangelical zeal.

"Book of Numbers, Chapter 25, Verse 7," she muttered, shaking her head. She should have expected them to turn up … _as suspects, Jess, don't jump past the evidence. You won't save anybody that way._

She slid two good gulps of whiskey down her throat slowly.

The Watchdogs and PFD had made her must-research punch list thanks to the bombshell Rebecca's uncle had dropped a few hours earlier at Josie's. Jones closed her eyes and worked bits of the conversation through the fog in her head.

" _Is there anyone who would want to hurt her?"_

" _That's why I came to you, Ms. Jones."_

" _Excuse me?"_

" _You're aware that Phineas Faithful Dominion is based in her town? In Lago? Their 'Vatican' is a megachurch there, Gatespring."_

" _No, I … those anti-powereds assholes with a prude stick up their ass?"_

" _Ah, so you do prefer the term powered?"_

" _Gifted is fine – anything that keeps me off the Raft. And either one beats freak, which is what Phineas Faithful Dominion calls us."_

" _Calls you. And her. And is the reason I'm worried about her."_

 _Silence._

" _So you said. How is Rebecca gifted?"_

" _You know what, powered does sound better than gifted, now that you say it."_

She poured the last splashes of Heaven Hill into her glass – operative word being _splash_ as she wound up cursing, fingertips blotting fluid off the sheets she'd printed on Samuel Cross. She dropped the empty bottle into the trash can, the hollow ring reminding her she hadn't been working as much lately as she'd hoped.

Lifting the glass, she paused, staring down at the strikingly paltry data she'd found. Rich _(duh),_ Marine Corps combat vet with serious battle cred _(impressive),_ serious wounds in Afghanistan, months in a hospital _(been there, kinda),_ made fast money in weapons ( _it's this century's dot-com boom),_ reclusive ( _obviously_ ), politically connected to both D's and R's ( _of course_ ). Companies, and shell companies, and shells around those companies. Well-polished shells; hardly ever the same names on the boards. Made millions in arms sales, billions by churning the millions.

She threw the bourbon into her mouth, then leaned back, rolling the glass over her forehead while rolling the taste over her tongue, and went back to their chat at Josie's.

" _So, Rebecca has powers. What powers?"_

" _Her mother has been vague on that. My sister in law's a Phineas devotee. Goes to Gatespring Church, the whole thing, so it was a problem between them. It's why I took it upon myself to watch over Rebecca … distantly, but carefully."_

" _Distantly? So, you don't stalk everybody you have an interest in?"_

" _Stalk? I merely came to observe you in what I understand you embrace as your natural habitat, Ms. Jones. And being as I've made my career here in the city, while she's lived upstate all her life, then – yes, distantly."_

And Jessica had thought, _more distance than just geography,I think, you rich prick. But he wants me in this for some reason, so either I'm in play or … I don't know what happens to the kid._

She rubbed her eyes, knowing she had to be up in a few hours to hit the road for Lago, Orange County, New York, which Samuel Cross had assured her was beautiful. But then, he'd rolled his eyes so adroitly her competitive nature was jealous of his moves.

 _So straight into the mouth of Hell it is,_ she sighed. _Stupid. Stupid stupid Jessica._

She looked over the Lago map she'd printed out. She'd marked key locations: Rebecca's childhood home; Gatespring Church; Rebecca's former high school; and, the Short Line Bus station, the schedule for which was printed and stapled on the map.

The last was simply a precaution. She hadn't had as much time as she'd like to back-check the client, but what she'd seen – and _had_ found – suggested he had money, which in turn suggested that whatever was going on, the opposition might bring some resources to bear.

She dug through a desk drawer, found a pint of Maker's Mark, and loosened the cap, ready to liquor-blast the voices out of her head for now.

* * *

Glass shattered against the pavement where the bottle fell.

"Sounds like we're up," said the Watchdog who dropped it, striding toward the doors of The Excelsior with two others in tow. The Loners were finishing the standard encore of the set, a cover of "Gimme Shelter," the anthem for the powereds and their friends.

The Watchdog leader called out, louder now, "Time to stomp some geeks and freaks."

A tall, striking figure turned slowly to face them. Hands resting in the pockets of his Svenska Flygvapnet overcoat, Hellstrom smiled easily and greeted them. "Gentlemen," he said, moving closer, voice dropping low, breath fogging as he spoke. "You'd do well to walk away tonight. You can walk away six thousand dollars better off, or you can die."

The three exchanged looks among themselves before the leader snapped a solid, non-telegraphed punch worthy of any cellblock in America directly at Hellstrom's jaw. He flash-turned and out of the whirl spun a glamour-illusion. Yellow-cat-costumed Trish now appeared to be standing there.

The punch seemed to go *into* him / "her", and then the man was simply … gone, wisps of smoke rising.

Dumbfounded, his two friends glanced at each other again, then launched at Hellstrom / "Trish".

Only one made contact, flaring into flame that quickly become a roll of smoke, rising into the air. The second seemed to catch on a bungee cord before flying back, chin heading directly into the heel of the right hand of a slender, almost elfin Spider-Woman, who whipped him away again with the web running from her left hand to his waist, snapping him face first into a light pole.

Hellstrom smiled.

Spider-Woman – _girl, really,_ he thought – flicked her wrist, the web breaking and wrapping the Watchdog around the pole, unconscious and drooling.

Hellstrom / "Trish" saluted her, then shot up to a landing above. His own visage faded back into view. "Hellcat rising. That'll make them think twice before they try to touch you again, my dear," he muttered.

* * *

Jessica was out on her stomach, a cold sweat dampening her pillow. Limbs askew, she was atop the covers, still dressed but for having ditched her boots, leaving the socks on. She has twisted one corner of the sheet below her with her fist, and muttered now and again; whimpered, growled.

Her face was turned away from the window.

The bright red dot riding a pale beam that danced around her room slid up her form quickly, stopping at her head, then arched around the room slowly, before returning to her tousled hair.

It snapped off.


	5. Ep 5: AKA School Days

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 5: AKA School Days**

* * *

 _Sonny. Fucking Sonny. Asshole still won't give me a whiskey discount even if I did save his ass during that robbery awhile back. Attempted robbery only, actually, thanks to me. But what the hell, with the retainer Mr. Italian Suit laid on me, I could've bought Sonny's entire stock. Non-refundable retainer, by the way, so it's mine, fail or not._

 _Still. I need to nail this. One-woman office, all I got is my reputation on the street. Besides, this kid may be in serious trouble._

 _And it's not like I'm a TV detective. Can't afford to work just one case at a time. Anyway, stepping outside of the city right now seems like a good idea._

Jessica thanked the gods for the shades covering half her face as she drove through rural New York. An afternoon at Josie's, and a stop at Sonny's grocery on the way home for the night, and a long night killing off the bottle she bought – even _her_ metabolism couldn't catch the hangover and stuff it away completely.

And things were stacking up on her.

Rebecca was still missing, obviously; and Miranda Pritchett, of course, was still dead. The contact number Sandra Pritchett had left on the contract was "not in service at this time" the previous night or in the morning as Jessica waited for the rental to be brought around. Jessica doubted it was in service now. She'd have to pretext her way into finding out if Sandra actually lived in the apartment listed on the form; the straightforward approach had been turned away by the bored office manager who answered the phone.

Jess had added an hour to her morning before leaving, showering and then "wanding" her jacket, her jeans, her tee-shirt, socks and boots, finding no bugs. She (again) had the dwindling surplus from her fee for the Halberstam job to thank for that new detection equipment. But it only eliminated the amateurs and the semi-pros. She had to wonder if a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet was idly following her from the stratosphere.

 _Oh yeah, they're gone. Pfffft. Gone, my ass._

She tried Samuel Cross on the phone, wanting to check some details with him, but he was "unavailable for the moment." No, she didn't care to leave a message. Well – yes, she did, just to let him know she was working the case right now.

Jessica crossed into Orange County an hour and a half out of the city and drove on to where New York State Route 94 merged into 17A. That was her cue that she was almost there, and in a few more minutes she'd indeed arrived. Lago, New York, looked recently rural but was rapidly being concreted suburban, like much of Orange County.

She glanced at the street sign as it passed and swallowed hard. _Main Street._

She pulled over to the curb on Main, shut down the engine, and found herself awash in small town quiet. She closed her eyes. _Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

Renewing her bleary gaze through her aviator shades, she scanned the two rows of quaint storefronts lining the road. She frowned at the men ambling past in suits and women in modest skirts that billowed in the breeze. Children's giggles rode past when the wind picked up.

 _Holy shit, it finally happened,_ she thought. _I've died and gone to Ozzie & Harriet Hell. Where's the damn parking meter? Last thing I need is having a rental get towed._

She was out of the car, still getting oriented, looking up and down the street, when the cop came up behind her. The oppressive "normalcy" of the town was galling, reminding her of the sanitized version of her childhood home that Kilgrave had made as a prison for her. _Birch Street. Higgins -_

"Hey," he said. "Been expecting you."

She whirled, causing the uniformed officer to step back, hands held a bit wide of his hips.

"Woah. Don't break my neck, lady, just saw you looked lost. Can I help you?"

"You've been _expecting_ me?" she asked, vocal accusation sliding past her neutral expression.

"Well … yeah. It was in the city paper. 'Famous super-powered detective Jessica Jones,' looking into the disappearance of that girl. The runaway." He folded his arms, grinding his jaw. "You know, the one we apparently can't find without some city PI holding our hands? Had your picture and everything. Good PR you got, lady."

Jessica folded her arms. "Okay, one, I had nothing to do with that. Two, it actually kinda pisses me off to hear about it. Three, I'm just trying to check out where she might be. I'm not saying the cops haven't kept this little Eden safe. And four, she's old enough that if she left your little spot of paradise here, could be she just moved, she didn't 'run away'." She rolled her shoulders looking around Main Street again. "Escaped, maybe," she muttered.

The cop scratched behind his left ear for show, a staged nonchalance. "Not a fan of small towns?"

"Nothing personal," Jess shrugged. "Look, I seldom leave Hell's Kitchen, let alone New York City. I just …." She shifted on her feet, head bopping a quick beat, gaze downcast, then looked up at him again. "Been a shitty coupla days and I shouldn't be taking it out on you." She looked around Main Street again and forced herself to brighten her face. "It seems like a … nice place." _Is that what these kind of people like to hear?_

"We try to keep it that way. And I got a file, what we can release anyway, back at the station for you. Got it ready when the article came out. Now back to question one. Any particular direction I can point you?"

"Yeah." Jessica pulled a wad of paper from her jacket and held it up. "Printed a map, marked places I need to hit. Didn't think your local paper would be one of those places but it sounds like a chat might be necessary. Which way?"

* * *

Spotting Father Lantom inside, Page slipped quietly into the afternoon crowd at Hellcat Annie's Tap Room and took a seat opposite him. Sitting at the corner of 45th and 10th Avenue, it was a now-gentrified Hell's Kitchen landmark, where the Westies had once held court when it was The White House Bar.

Karen reminded Father Lantom of this, adding, "Ben Urich used to tell me, 'Those boys should never have taken up with the Gambinos. Was the death of them.' He said the Gambinos used Jimmy Coonan's greed to sneak in here like Satan used the snake to get into Eden."

"No," Lantom said, voice flat. "Coonan tried the Genoveses before them, anyway, and in the end, it was their own murderous nature that did in the Westies." He chuckled. "That and the FBI. But it does seem devils are always sneaking into Hell's Kitchen, for better or for ill." Walsh folded his arms, leaning back, not giving any indication he'd noticed her stiffen, keeping his eyes studiously forward and hooded. "Never truly gone, the good ones or the bad."

She hesitated, then tucked some loose hair behind her ear. "There are rumors."

"There are always rumors, but the greater mysteries are not for mere parish priests," Father Lantom smiled. "Even the ones some people trust. Especially those some people trust."

Her reporter's antennae were vibrating.

"Anyway," he went on. His gaze was hooded, and he wasn't looking at her. "What I do know is that he's left friends behind. And someone who might have cared for him, might want to look after a friend of his in peril. Especially when she's been left to look after all of Hell's Kitchen, it seems."

It took Karen but one beat to get it. "Wait, Jessica Jones? That's why you wanted to talk to me?"

He shrugged. "She's not a devil, good or bad, but I understand she's been through Hell. Worse than you may know, there's some to tell me. You? You just tell her that everything she needs is in the laptop."

"The laptop?" She was completely lost and told him so.

"I don't know any more than you do," he smiled. "The laptop, is all I was told." He tilted the beer, draining it. "Just passing along what I've been told to – well, pass along. 'Everything she needs is in the laptop.'" He sighed. "I'm afraid my – source – wasn't able to say much more than that. Difficult for him to speak. Well connected, but still a bit infirm, at the moment."

Her heart was pounding. "Infirm?"

"More than a bit," he murmured, almost a moan. "But it's hard to kill a devil when he's never truly been the devil's own."

The priest turned his gaze on her at last, though it was still shrouded.

"Please see the information gets to Ms. Jones," he said. "Not hard to find. Her office is just a block away."

"I know. Turn right just past Queen of Sheba." She smiled. "I checked it out earlier for – reasons."

"One-, two-minute walk, tops," he nodded. He shoved an envelope toward her. "Information on the mob's union infiltration you've been writing about. I'd suggest you do an update article in the next day or two. I've included quotes from myself, on the record. That'll explain to anyone who's watching us meet why we met. I'll assume your discretion in handling the information with Ms. Jones. But even if noticed –" he shrugged. "Your link through the Defenders is known, so it won't necessarily link back to anyone in particular."

Karen's throat was sand-blasted dry. "Like the devil you knew?" she murmured. "Or perhaps know?"

He started to add something, but caught himself, and a crooked, rueful smile took his lips. "That's all I have, but let's enjoy our lunch," he suggested gently. "Lest someone watching think this was a meeting between two cut-outs, connecting people who can't be seen together right now, eh?"

* * *

Jessica jumped at the voice behind her that called out, "Help you?"

The PI backed away from the window, turning to see a fortyish, pleasant stick figure of a woman approaching.

"You with this paper?" Jess held up a copy of the _Lago Observer_ the officer had handed her to help her with the address.

"Honey, I _am_ this paper. Publisher, editor, writer." She was close now and grinned, sticking her hand out. "Patricia Pugawa. And you're Jessica Jones! I recognize you from your picture."

"Yeah," Jess said dryly, though she shook her hand. "And so does everybody else in town thanks to you."

The reporter frowned. "Is that a problem? You're news. This thing is news. People want to know what happened to Rebecca. Some hope it's bad. Me, I'm …" she sighed, running her palms over her arms. "She's a wonderful young woman. Did some photo work for the paper, part-time, you know?"

Jessica didn't. Her uncle's file hadn't mentioned it.

"I'm hoping she just finally escaped this place." Patricia said.

Jessica didn't answer right away, thankful for the shades that kept her stare shrouded. She was staring over the woman's shoulder as a car moved too slowly past. _Tinted windows,_ she thought. _Driver, guy sitting shotgun. Looks like we're all in shades._ The driver gave away the game, kicking the speed up a notch and shooting past. _Amateurs. Or intimidation. Same thing._

"Thing is," Jessica dragged her stare back to the reporter, pulling down her shades to fix her gaze with her own. "It's called private investigation. It's right there, in the name. Private. Kinda hard to sneak up on information when it sees you coming."

The reporter shrugged. "Then why'd your client call me to tell me you were coming?"

Jessica shifted weight from foot to foot. "I have no idea."

"You didn't ask him?"

"I just found out about it." Jess' eyes narrowed. "Look, you said people are following this thing?"

"Quiet town, so it's big news," Pugawa said. "What?"

"Wow," Jessica said, staring into the distance. "A white picket fence. An actual white picket fence. I thought those were like … unicorns." She looked by at Patricia. "So, you're on top of this, where would you start?"

"Gatespring Church." She glanced over her shoulder. "Word was Rebecca had friends who were powered, and Gatespring is like the Vatican for the Phineas Faithful Dominion."

"Right," Jess frowned. "But you're sic'ing me on them? I thought it was just us godless city folk who'd instantly think of them. This Reverend Hoskins of theirs, the senior pastor, he's painfully careful to denounce violence. He just loves to teach hate, not have anything done about it."

Patricia laughed. "Yeah, that's the MO these days, isn't it? Work hard for a reputation with your disciples and ready recruits, then run hard from your reputation with everyone else." She arched an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly, her thumb jerking back over her shoulder toward the office. "You want to find that sweet girl, you might want to start with a look at my files on our First Unity Church of Hatred and Discrimination."

"AKA Gatespring. You think they did it?"

"And take the risk?" She snorted. "In prison, the Lord's ministers can't make money and build power and fuck every woman who can't say 'no' to them and be believed about it. Plus, they haven't got the balls. But they love to push the buttons of those who do."

"Okay," Jessica folded her arms, shifting her weight. _So, Jesus, Jess, maybe take it down a notch. Possible ally alert._ "Got a few minutes to educate me further?"

* * *

Her new-found flexibility meant Trish could have patted herself on the back, but she didn't. Felt like it though, when she did _not_ jump, or act much more than a bit surprised, to look up into the mirror behind the bar and see Daimon sitting next to her, sipping a glass of vodka she'd not heard him order.

She'd been lost in thought, relaxing, after an afternoon scaring off the last of a half dozen suitors for the next round of Viktor Orlov's high powered weapons set to be auctioned by his man Turk.

Now, she ran a fingertip around the rim of her wine glass, turning her gaze back to the TV over the bar broadcasting another report about the gamine Spider-Woman whose exploits against the illegal arms dealers made her jealous. "Mr. Hellstrom. Don't tell me you've gone back to stalking me, again?"

"Ah, and here I'd hoped you had stalked me." He chuckled, setting the glass down, and turned atop his stool, giving her his cut profile in the mirror along with his undivided attention. "I own Kurios, you see," he said, gesturing at the bar. "So that glass of Marcel Servin is on the house. And all else you'd care for this afternoon. Beyond that, if you wish, I'll make myself scarce."

He was half on his feet when her palm folded over his forearm, a gesture that caused both to freeze, stare, and then smile. She smiled ruefully; his smile was as lupine as one might get without being threatening.

"Just wondering," she sipped the Chablis before continuing, lowering her voice. "You're just walking away, now, on your feet like a normal person? Because your vanishing act last night was _très impressionnant_."

He resettled himself, his chin in his palm, elbow braced on the bar. "I quite like how drinking the better wines seems to call forth French from beautiful women."

Trish rolled her eyes. "I like how beautiful women seem to cause men to avoid answering direct questions." She turned to face him, now. "Seriously, Daimon, what's with the magic? You've got to be born gifted, not even the best tech or enhancements out there could account for that."

"Born gifted," he said, "would come the closest. But I've worked hard as well."

"On … magic."

"Is it so strange that one might have magic no doctor can give? I inherited it from my father. You'll have heard of him." He leaned forward, and indulged his touch lightly over her blonde hair, pushing it gently away from the ear into which he whispered.

She sat back and stared. "Lucifer. That's your proud papa? Lucifer?"

"Oh, no, I told you. I'm a disappointment to my father, as he was to his. Got thrown out of heaven, the old man. Resistance is in my blood."

"Okay, one chance to walk it back from crazy. You're saying you're – what, a sort of third gen god? Really? A _god_?"

"Bit more of a devil, actually," he laughed. "But didn't Thor himself hover above this city but a few blocks away in recent memory?"

"UmHmm. And how did you disappoint Daddy?"

Daimon sighed. "He's not terribly fond of humans," he said. "Whereas I've found them fascinating, at the least." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "And sometimes enchanting."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, buddy. So – once more – we're back to 90s pickup lines. And – really – _Lucifer?_ "

He wagged his head back and forth, eyes scouring the ceiling a moment. "Well, perhaps I speak metaphorically," he said. "Perhaps. But this is no metaphor." She startled as the bottle of Marcel Servin was floating over the counter to his hand came into view. He caught it and refilled her glass in one smooth motion.

"Rich, handsome, magical," she said flatly. "You got a stable of women, I'm guessing, so why the interest in me?"

"First of all, I don't keep stables," he answered. He arched an eyebrow, setting the bottle on the bar. "And to the point. Karl Malus, his IGH treatment, gave you more than those cat-like reflexes you're enjoying. Certain powers, once sleeping, were awakened. Powers similar to mine."

She blinked. "Magic?"

"Which means you should be watched. Protected. Treasured." His gaze settled briefly on her own, then drifted. "I could awaken them more fully now, if you like?" He unfolded, then slightly cupped his fingers, a glowing orange ball roiling tiny lightning in his palm.

She stared with open thirst at the power glowing above his hand.

"You've done well, yourself," he said. "I heard about that scuffle outside the Excelsior."

"I was inside. Don't believe everything you hear."

"Nonetheless," he said, rolling the ball of energy from one palm to the other. "It shot your credibility on the street up to the gates of heaven. You've earned a lot of respect in a short period of time with your powers. Imagine if you added this? And perhaps as a little lagniappe, I might throw in the whereabouts of a fellow named Orlov. I can give you live, accurate location information. I know the Feds want him. I hear the Avengers want him. It would be a good mark in your favor with major players to be the one to turn him in."

He leaned closer. "But, in the end, for those like us, it's about ability for its own sake, isn't? Wouldn't you like at least a taste of the powers of resistance?"

* * *

Jessica would have found Gatespring Church of Everlasting Life easily enough without the directions Patricia Pugawa gave her. It was three times taller than anything else in Lago, its expensive gleaming metal, granite, and glass pooling unnatural light in a town otherwise made of wood and brick and mortar on the decay.

Security was federal reserve tight, and the two guards she mentally tagged as "Mutt and Jeff" who led to her to Reverend Chris Hoskins's office spoke as if it hurt to say words out loud.

Along the way, though, she eyed a place teeming with staff whose gleaming smiles threatened Dow Chemical's domination of the plastics market. Pretty people whose pretty pink-punchy prettiness was slathered prettily on top of pretty piles of refined white sugar flitted past them as they went by day-care for the employees and the K-12 private school within the walls.

Mutt knocked and got a muffled call for "one moment" from inside Hoskins' office. A few heart beats later, the door open and Jeff gestured her forward to meet The Reverend.

Overtly, Hoskins was all sweet tones and sunbeam eyes, but his inner reserve – or revulsion – degraded the corners of his forced smile.

"Miss Jones, is it?" he said, handing a file to a blond, fit aide of fifteen or sixteen in a church school blazer as the pastor made his way to his desk and tech-and-media heavy workstation, which Jessica immediately, internally nicknamed the Battleship Gallactica. "Be back here in fifteen, Bobby," he said to the kid. "I should be finished here, then."

As the lad slipped outside, Hoskins muttered, "Intern from the school." He slid into his chair, steepling his hands in front of his mouth, "I understand this has to do with one of our members?"

She tilted her head, eyes taking in the other details of his office, a space filled with photographs of himself in the presence of political powers. "Girl named Rebecca. Her family are members. She's gone missing and –"

"—surely that's a police matter?" he interrupted, though his smile widened with false light. "I understood you were a private investigator."

"I've been hired –"

"—may I ask by who?"

She stared, a delaying tactic to take back the rhythm of the conversations from him. "No."

His eyes flamed. _Clearly, not a word he likes to hear._

Hoskins waited, but finally broke the silence. "Well, we have over fifteen thousand members of the church here alone, not to mention campuses all over the country, and our online broadcasts. I'm afraid I don't know who –"

"Fifteen thousand members, just here?" she interrupted him, now. "Are there even that many people in Lago?"

He spread his hands. "We draw from throughout the area." His palms hit the desk top with a deliberate smack. "Anyway, I don't know who this Rebecca Cross is."

Jess smiled at the force with which he'd slapped the desk. _What's next, beating your chest?_ "She might have stood out. Artistic. Blonde. Glasses. Pretty. Rumor around town was she's powered."

"Powered?" he scoffed. He chuckled and sighed. "Oh, one of those. We've had some here, trying to pass for human, but the power of God that protects us in our faith is very evident. They sense it and leave. So, I doubt I would have noticed her in the short time she tried to infest the faithful."

Jessica ground her fingernails into her palm, using the distraction to keep herself from otherwise reacting. "The Phineas Faithful Dominion, right?"

He wagged his head back and forth. "We have a close relationship with PFD, but I meant the faithful more generally. Our members."

"Including PFD," she said, pulling a brochure from her jacket and smoothing it out before opening it up. "You're quoted here -"

" – as I said –"

"— saying, 'The hell spawn seed of criminals, rapists, perverts, and liars, who would take over this country of God, must be stopped, and the Phineas Faithful are in the front lines of defense.'" She looked back up. "Hell spawn?"

He sighed. "Look, all these so-called 'Francis Catholics' and their liberal friends refuse to see the danger despite their vaunted two thousand years of church tradition. And the Evangelical Sermon on the Mount Alliance openly associates with so-called Democratic Socialists in their haste to support the fre – the mutants. Now, I'm not sitting here saying ESMA are Communists, themselves."

"According to what I read last night," she interjected, "ESMA associates with Libertarians, Democrats, Republicans, Greens. They're more about their faith than anything political."

"It's not political, in fact." He leaned forward. "Let me tell you the truth that ESMA won't," he said, eyes flashing. "Genesis Chapter Six tells us of a past, in warning of us of this future. Fallen angels who lay with human women, producing the Nephilim." His smile curled. "Who came to rule over men. The mighty ones. Palestine's Mightiest Heroes, they might even have billed themselves."

Jess honestly didn't get it at first. "What does … wait. You're saying gifteds, powereds, they're hybrid _demons_?"

"It's in the name," Hoskins said impatiently. "Inhumans?"

"Okay, clearly not the same thing," she told him.

He shrugged, his gaze glowing with contempt. "Odd how it sounds the same."

"It's not just inhumans, there are different kinds of –"

"You know a lot about that population, Miss Jones." He tilted his head. "Come to think of it, you would, though. New York City? PI? Jessica Jones – I've heard of you, haven't I?" His look communicated, and clearly meant to communicate, that he knew exactly who – " _what"_ – she was. It was a threat, head-on.

"Imagine you have," Jess laid her ankle over her knee, hunching forward. "There's your local paper for a start."

"Don't take this personally," he said, in the same tone that phrase was always used as a magic talisman to keep the target from protesting the reality that it was obviously personal, "but it doesn't change a thing that today it is human labs creating nothing more than chaotic, random mutants. It's just their desperation to make evolution seem 'scientific'. The demonic has always been able to find traitors among us. Look at Judas."

Jess shifted in her chair, jaw grinding. "PFD isn't the front line in your war."

"Excuse me?"

"You believe what you believe, and this Phineas Faithful Dominion may be the heart of your church, but they use shock troops. It's the standard three-layer cake. Believers to vanguard to street thugs. Same way the alt-right uses skinheads, PFD has the Watchdogs. And you have PFD."

"I have always condemned the violence of the 'Dogs."

"But not the way they think. Two months ago when they beat down a fourteen year old gifted in Pittsburgh? You gave a sermon saying the Watchdogs' 'frustration' was quote understandable, closed quote. You said we should expect more of this until authorities 'purified' our population from mutants and inhumans."

"Simply saying how Americans out there feel," he said. "Not endorsing any actions. Not even endorsing any legislation."

"Right. Because that would jeopardize your 501(c)(3) tax status. You like those two tax-free parsonages, don't you?" She leaned back. "The cheapest one would list at a million five."

"And both are justified by an independent market-standard review of benefits for those in charge of large ecclesiastical tax-exempt nonprofits." He stared at her, not bothering to hide his hostility now. "You've done some research."

She shrugged. "It was interesting. I didn't even know the tax code would allow two different parsonages. Depends on a chain of (c)3's, connected but technically separate, right? Sweet sweet ride this holy shit gets you. Or is it 'thou'?"

He ignored her. "As for this Rebecca Cross, I've never met her, have no idea who she is or where she is."

He pressed, she surmised from what she could see, a button along the bottom of the lip of his desktop, and within five seconds the door popped open for Mutt and Jeff. Only then did Hoskins say, "Meanwhile, we'll keep her in our thoughts and prayers. If there's nothing else?"

"Not now," she said. She stood and walked toward the guards, turned at the door. "I am curious about one thing. Fifteen thousand members. Probably a number of Rebeccas in the mix? Common enough name."

His eyes feigned weariness while a single cocked eyebrow signaled how odd he found the question. "No idea. I suppose there are. Why?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. Just curious."

Mutt and Jeff led her into the hallway, past a waiting Bobby and a similarly fit, young friend, and all the way back to her car, staring at her as she got in, watching it – Mutt using binoculars, she saw in her rear-view mirror – until she was out of his sight.

Once on the road, Jessica fumed. _I never said her last name._

* * *

Costa wasn't usually comfortable in federal offices, but at least Agent Madani radiated street sense. He knew her background with Homeland Security; knew she'd served in Afghanistan. Knew there was a buzz around her, some high-level leverage she had on the CIA. When she'd asked for him to be seconded to her task force, looking into terrorist connections to the influx of high-tech weapons on the streets of his Hell's Kitchen, he'd actually felt flattered.

Now, biting her lip, Dinah Madani kept spinning a cell phone around on the table. "So why would Golden Boy's attorney take a run at you?"

"Simple. Jessica Jones."

Madani sat straighter. "The PI? She's in the files. She's the one nobody likes, right?"

"Nobody?" he chuckled. "You Feds really need to get out more. But fair enough. Where NYPD is concerned. Thing is, though, I got a rep. I've heard the buzz. Some of it to my face. Some of it _in_ my face. That I'm soft on Jones. That I cut her slack." He paused, eyes drifting, then grunted. "Well, maybe I do. But I had a fucking gun to my head and that lady saved my ass."

Madani's brow was furrowed. "Never saw an incident report about her saving a cop. She got the gun out of a bad guy's hand for you?"

"The gun was in my hand."

Madani stared. "Come again?"

"Kilgrave," he shrugged. "The mind controlling asshole I told you about, Dinah."

"Some sort of incident at the precinct."

"Right." Costa nodded. "Had a precinct floor of cops, guns to our heads, he coulda had us pull the triggers with a snap of his finger, one of us, all of us, half of us – just a command and a snap of his finger - but she got him out of there. And the way she that?" He leaned forward, staring hard at Madani, "She agreed to go stay with that rapist son-of-a-bitch. With _him_. The last thing she wanted to do in the world, and she did it to save me, and – oh, yeah, by the way – a floor full of other cops." He lowered his head, sighing. "We got to go home to our families. She wound up living with her rapist. Since when, yeah, no question I tend to be give her the benefit of the doubt."

"Okay," Madani nodded slowly. Her face was burning with anger. "I know a little something about men who …" She broke away. She had yet to fully confront the enormity of what Billy Russo had done to her not so long ago. She wasn't sure which was worse: that the son-of-a-bitch who secretly killed her partner and friend had been her bed-mate at the time, or that he had actually had the balls to have comforted her when she was shattered over the death. "Look. Got it. You're saying –"

"I'm saying she's target one, here," he interrupted. "That's why they took a run at getting me on Team Golden Boy. Turn me, or at least take me out of the equation."

"She's a freak," the woman told Jessica, chopping at the celery with a fury that echoed in the tiny kitchen. "She's un-natural, in all kinds of ways. Not surprised she'd vanish like this."

"Unfortunately, young women vanish for all kinds of reasons. What makes you so sure it has to do with her being gifted?"

"That's what worries you?"

"Following the wrong set of leads worries me."

Rebecca's mother sighed, shaking her head. "If I were you," she said, pausing her veggie dissection to point at Jess with the knife. "I'd be more worried about myself. People in this country are finally waking up about your kind, you know." She smirked. "Yeah, I read all about you, 'hero.'"

The look Jessica returned caused the other woman to step back – literally – precisely because it was wasn't anger, or even contempt. Cool unconcern was _not_ what she seemed to have been led to expect from 'demon-spawn'.

"Look," the woman went on. "My husband's brother hired you, not me, so –"

"You never talked to him about it?"

She puffed a bit of scorn from her mouth. "We never talk, not since he got back from Afghanistan – what? Ten years ago? Something like that. He's stayed in contact with her, off and on, always long distance. Emails, texts – I don't think they ever so much as talked on the phone since he got back. I don't even know how he knew she was missing. But he's always shown some interest in Rebecca, for his brother's sake.

"Your husband."

"Yeah. Unfortunately." She snorted. "He never liked Lago, from the minute we first moved here. Never went to church with me. Hated the Phineas Faithful. May God have mercy on his soul."

She paused, staring out a small window over her sink. "I will say, Samuel took a very different path from that drunken thief." She spat out the last. "U.S. Marines, fresh out of school. Wounded bad – real bad. Heard from Rebecca, he took a med out, and then went private sector. Made a ton of money, I guess and … whatever, after." she shrugged. "Heard he was in town a year ago, got pulled over by the cops for speeding. Probably here to see Rebecca. She and I weren't talking much by then."

"You were a co-signatory on her checking account," Jessica said, refusing to notice the other woman's offended glare as she slid a form from her pocket with a pen. _(Why do they think investigators don't actually investigate? We're not all Pryce Cheng.)_ "The bank said if you'll sign this they can tell me –"

The mother snatched the form, the pen, brought the two together violently, and sent them both over the counter back to where Jess was standing.

"Anything else about Rebecca you can think of? Threats –" Jess stopped in shock the mother's bitter laugh.

"When you're like her, of course people are unhappy with you." She pointed with the knife again to the backpack on the counter. "Look, I gave you that, Miss Jones, that's all I really got for you."

"What exactly are Rebecca's powers?"

Mrs. Cross shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care."

"Don't _know?"_ Jessica rasped, flinging her hands wide. "You obviously do care a lot, so how could you not know? How do you even know she's powered?"

"Talk gets around. And it explained things. About her."

Jess waited, then shrugged impatiently, motioning her to go on.

"Her unnatural desires."

"Her …." The PI frowned. "What, is she into doing it with Argentine penguins?"

"Same difference," Mrs. Cross sniffed. She wiped her hands on a long dishtowel. "Look, like I told you when you insisted on coming in, I didn't hire you in the first place, so if you don't mind?" She gestured toward the living room, and the door beyond.

"She's gay? She told you that?"

"Talk gets around," she repeated, tears filling her eyes. "Do you have any idea what it's like learning your baby is … one of them?"

"Gay or powered?"

The woman shrugged.

"Worse than finding out she's vanished without a trace?" Jess asked. The woman had turned now, staring out a tiny kitchen window. Jessica waited through a year long minute, then slid her card onto the counter as she muttered, "Okay. Well … thanks for seeing me."

The woman's cough stopped Jess from moving. Mrs. Cross started to speak, twice, before clearing her throat. "If you find her," she said quietly. "I would like to know she's all right."

Jess stood, staring at another victim of hate. _A lesser victim, but still someone not allowed to love._ She shrugged, slinging Rebecca's heavy backpack over her shoulder. Mrs. Cross had told her to take it – and keep it – along with everything inside. " _When_ I find Rebecca, will she be welcomed home?"

"This was never her home." Mrs. Cross said. But any anger Jessica would've felt tamped down under the weight of the tone in the mother's voice. It was quiet. It wasn't angry. It wasn't accusatory. It was confessional, helpless, and without hope.

* * *

"Turk."

Barrett turned at the woman's quiet murmur and was greeted by her laughter.

"Not who you were expecting?" Trish asked.

He took in the outfit. "Hellcat," he said, squaring off. "Don't remember sending you an invitation."

She stepped out of the shadows, under the wide circle of light the bug-spattered bulb cast over the landing of the warehouse. She nodded at the array of alien, Hydra, and S.H.I.E.L.D. tech on the table. "What? No LMDs? Heard you're offering those up, too."

"Made to order," he lifted his chin. "You got somebody in mind?"

Trish's smile within the frame of her mask was cruelly feline. "I'm good, thanks. Your buyers aren't showing up, by the way."

He stared at her long enough to apparently decide she wasn't kidding. "Ai'right. Sounds like the auction's postponed."

"You don't think I'm letting you pile that back in the truck down there, do you?"

He folded his arms. "Well, Viktor don't care where the money comes from, if that's what you mean. You interested? Package deal?"

"Viktor Orlov," she said, as if suddenly remembering him. "Hey, I don't carry a watch with this cat suit. You got the time?"

"It's on my watch," he answered, refusing to move.

Her claws flexed open with a metal whine. "Read it to me."

He considered the threat, then did so.

Hellcat nodded. "Yeah, what I thought. Viktor's on his way to the Raft right now. Let's see him pull off a second escape."

"You're …." He was stricken. Not because he gave a damn about Viktor Orlov, but: "That's my paycheck, lady!"

"Not anymore."

"Since when are you S.H.I.E.L.D.? Or – Avengers, maybe?"

She chuckled. "Come on, Turk. They don't care what happens in this sandbox but they're happy to take in information that makes the Feds happy." She shifted on her feet, flexing her claws again. "Thing is, it'll be interesting to see who panics once all that –" she pointed at the weapons "— isn't hitting the streets on the regular."

"Orlov's really gone?"

She nodded.

"Don't matter to me," he said, turning to look at the pile of tech. "Guy was a pain in the ass. Hanging out with them damn Watchdogs chased off as much business as he lined up."

Trish's ear twitched. "Watchdogs? Anybody else?"

He turned back around. "You know, my street radar's saying you telling the truth about Orlov being gone."

She smiled. "You looking for a new team? Earn a little credit first, Turk."

He thought, then gave it up. "Guy named Lawson was running the show. Lawyer."

"Lawson the Lawyer." She nodded. "And?"

He spread his hands. "All I know. Some goddamn suit. So, we cool? I can go?"

Trish stared. If the man was lying, she thought, this was one hell of a good act and she knew a little something about acting. "Poorer, I guess, but yeah, you can go."

"At least I got a golden parachute." He jerked his thumb toward the table full of high tech weaponry.

Behind him, Hellstrom spoke. "I'm afraid we're confiscating that, Mr. Barrett."

Turk turned to see him bouncing a hellishly orange flame that pulsed icy cold air out from its tendrils.

Only his long-sharpened street-sure detachment let him focus calmly. "Shit. You two are together. That explains a lot."

"As much as you need to know, in any event," Hellcat confirmed, pacing around him in a slow half circle. "Stay out of the game for a while, Turk. Right now, I'm willing to think you've just been Orlov's lackey. No idea what the bigger game is."

He tilted his head back. "Sounds about right to me."

She stopped to face him. "Don't make me wonder if I'm wrong. I'll have to ask you about it then. I'll have to ask pretty hard." The smile she gave him was chillier than the air turning their breath to fog. She leapt to the rafters and was gone.

He turned quickly enough to catch the frozen fog where Hellstrom had stood before it faded away.

* * *

Jessica had expected to find the tracking device on the underside of her car. It was fixed magnetically to a spot that had been clear when she went over the vehicle before heading to Gatespring Church. She had even counted on it and was pleased it looked off-the-shelf, unlikely to offer military precision in reporting exact real-time location.

She had left it on her car while making the predictable trips. A stop at the cop shop to pick up that file (no one could find the ticket given to Samuel Cross a year earlier but one guy remembered doing it); the stop to see Rebecca's mother; and the surely expected follow-up at the school, where she learned there were even more ways to avoid commenting while communicating disapproval than she'd previously known.

None of the teachers and staff knew Rebecca had gone missing post-graduation, though all remembered her. It was a small school. They assured Jess that their "thoughts and prayers" were with the missing girl, their frowns implying she'd been an annoying vine on the school's wall that had finally wilted away.

The only person genuinely grieved to hear the girl had vanished was her Photography Club sponsor, who showed Jones a small exhibit in the glorified broom closet that they'd been accorded for meetings. The sponsor said he hadn't looked at it in months, but that it had won awards running up to some sort of state finals.

Called simply "Main Street," it was a sequence of framed pictures walking the observer down that street in Lago, and even Jessica (who had never credited herself with particularly acute aesthetic skills) genuinely marveled at how Rebecca Cross took the mundane and made it spiritual.

"I wanted this in the trophy case out front," he said. "But the athletic department said 'no,' so …." He shrugged fatalistically. "Football won State in 1963, and they don't want a bunch of photos detracting from that."

Jones was entranced. Rebecca played with shadow and light spikes to draw in the eye. She captured exactly-right stills of people that provided both an illusion of outward motion and an illumination of their interior life. What someone glanced at; how they held themselves in that precise second; the smiles or frowns of those around them; Rebecca Cross didn't miss much around her.

What Jess noticed, though, was that an off-color square the same size as all the other frames on the wall at the end of the line of photographs in the Exhibit. A lonely nail was at the top of the faded square.

Her sponsor only frowned when Jessica pointed it out, and went back over the pictures one by one, before pausing and pointing.

"There," he said, pointing two-thirds of the way through. "That's –" he ran his gaze over the length of the exhibit, back and forth twice. "There's a gap in the 'walk.' The café shot was there. Somebody must have taken it and then moved the others together …." He frowned. "Why?"

He looked at Jessica, obviously making the same standard error that wore Jones out daily, confusing "investigator" with "psychic", expecting answers before investigation. She shrugged. "You tell me."

He rubbed his greying hipster's goatee and shook his head. "Well, other kids messed with her all the time because she was …. Different. But why wouldn't they take the entire thing?"

She took phone-photos of each of the pictures and said her thanks and goodbyes. As she did, he moved as if in a trace, eyes sad, rearranging the pictures into proper order, leaving the gap. "I hope you find her," he whispered. "Kids come through here and go but … well, she was something special." He pointed at the photos. "She has something special."

Stumbling for words, she half-heartedly patted his upper arm and promised to make every effort. She left, feeling a bit hollow – he was the first person she'd run into who seemed grieved at Rebecca's absence but she didn't have time to stay with him.

Jess wandered out onto the grounds and turned around. There were people whose entire lives would forever consist of remembering their school days.

Rebecca's wound up being an exhibit in the closet. But Jess felt her, knew her, somehow well enough to realize she'd always meant for her entire life to be what happened after – and that's what was being stolen from her. Jessica knew that feeling all too well.

She drove heavily in counter-follow mode, until she was certain the only people watching her was doing it on a screen miles away.

A side trip to the Short Line station, and a quick stride-past, deft-hand transfer, slid the device under the wheel-well of the Coach USA branded bus idling in readiness for the 4:10 commute to their station at 40th & 8thin the city. That final stop was within a half-mile of her office / apartment.

Given it was four p.m., that gave her at least an hour and a half cushion in which the screen-jockeys would see "her" heading home ending at a reported location well within tolerance of error they'd likely accept. She doubted they'd make the connection to a bus or a bus route; they'd take it they were watching her drive home.

She had one more stop before heading that way in reality and didn't want it known.

The Phineas Faithful Dominion Foundation headquarters was surprisingly spartan, from outside appearance. A small tan brick-and-mortar building that might have been a standard union hall or VFW post, it sat up a long drive feeding off of a four-lane highway just outside of town. Easily two football lengths away, the building and its parking lot were well outside the listening range of even her fancy new toy.

All this in an area lacking much natural cover.

Jessica admired the counter-surveillance layout, deliberate or not, even as she realized she at least needed to give it a shot. She pulled over to the side of the highway and focused her telephoto lens. A black 2018 Lexus ES sat in the lot, facing the building: New York plates with "Take Back New York!" and "Keaton for Mayor" stickers. _Figures,_ she thought. _Luxury model but plenty of room for boxes of flyers and black money cash bags._

She waited.

She gave grudging props to the PFD for the silver Camry sedan. It was the other only vehicle in the lot so she assumed it was a PFD ride. Camry – because very common, and one of the most mechanically reliable cars out there; silver – because nothing confused eyewitnesses more than a silver colored car, which (especially at night) caught all kinds of shades of light from every direction, leading people to report the same car at the same moment as being grey, green, pale blue, even tan.

Eyes on the site, she ran through the miniscule time-line in her head.

 _Mother last saw Rebecca three weeks ago. Rebecca last seen at work two days before that._

 _Pay day was the day before. She didn't make a deposit in her checking account like usual. She cashed it out._

 _Mom reported her missing to Lago PD after a week of not seeing her; Lago PD contacted Samuel Cross that day; he gives it a couple weeks for her to show up, then hires me._

 _Conclusion: she intended to go to the city. Maybe made it; maybe not._

She rubbed her eyes.

She waited.

A couple cars came, were photographed, and went, but all in all, she'd seen busier cemeteries. She tried Samuel Cross' number and was told by a chirpy woman she'd been forwarding the messages – Mr. Cross was very busy but would call her back soon.

The beginnings of actual countryside in which she sat kept drawing her Hell's Kitchen brain into wonder. She had a hard time staying focused, and felt itchy, having made the very deliberate and painful decision to leave even her smallest flask at home, precisely for this painfully long moment. A cop could knock on her window at any time, doing a "welfare check," and having a flask of whiskey in the car wouldn't help if he picked up just enough of the years' aroma off her jacket to get inquisitive.

She popped peppermint lozenges, bleaching the remaining fumes from last night's bender away.

And she waited.

It was only as dusk began draining the edges of the horizon that she sat up straight again, dialing the focus quickly onto the woman who left the building, pacing rapidly to the Lexus. She was talking to a guy in a suit and two men in camo. The woman was herself very well dressed, but her affect nervous – the nerves showing in repeated glances around the area, though she seemed relaxed toward the men themselves. She seemed familiar, vaguely, and –

 _No. Not vaguely._

Jess pulled back from the viewfinder, eyes wide, then pressed back in, tapping her focus. She snapped three quick pictures, then fired her engine, moving smoothly, with no apparent haste or alarm, back onto the highway proper. She glanced in her rear-view mirrors, rapping the wheel with her thumbs, a death metal level drumming, muttering curses under her breath.

Breathing deeply, she steadied her heartbeat, desperately yearning to stop at a bar at the first chance. But she kept telling herself _keep this run professional_ – _AKA get the fuck out of here clean_ – all the way to the city.

She kept her mind busy by using everything from Siri to dark web bots to call up and read to her aloud, running down the background of mayoral candidate Keaton – a welter-weight of mayonnaise social involvements ranging from the obligatory (United Way) to the obscure (something called the Bunbury Club, so unsung that no wiki from -pedia to -leaks cared to speak of it).

Back in the city, she turned over the rental and made her way to her place.

Only when sitting behind her desk, five hard quick swallows into a fresh bottle of Jack, did she finally ask it out loud.

"What the hell was Sandra Pritchett doing there?"

* * *

"Yeah," Denny Haynes said, voice low, his cell held tight against his ear. "No question she and Soo know each other."

He paused, listening, while staring at late-night Jersey across the Hudson through the huge windows of the warehouse.

"I'd say real good. Definitely friendly." Another pause. "Yeah he's a loner. I mean, not a Loner loner. But the guy just went through natural genetic terrigenesis just awhile back, and he's still getting his feet on the ground."

Haynes' eyes shot to the left at a shadow passing by him. He turned quickly, eyes widened in alarm, certain he'd seen Hellcat's yellow-and-blue-trim figure but found himself staring into a pool of darkness. Impossible darkness – a lamp just above it.

"Yeah, look," he muttered impatiently. "He's the right mark for the job. Me, I gotta go." He punched out and slid the phone into his jeans pocket. Starting toward the darkness, he ran his hands up and down his arms, suddenly chilled. "You're getting paranoid, Haynes," he told himself. "Christ, this job."

Shaking his head once, Haynes backed up and fast-walked himself out of area.


	6. Ep 6: AKA Fan Girls

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 6: AKA Fan Girls**

 **Note: A formatting error in the original posts of Eps. 1-5 did not signal changes of scene. I have modified the files and that should be corrected now.**

* * *

Jones unobtrusively shuffled aside the print-outs of her fruitless research on the many 'Sandra Pritchetts' in the New York metro area, none of whom seemed to be _her_ Sandra Pritchett. And the license plate number on her car didn't trace back to her – the title was held by a law firm: Lawson, Diviano & Silver.

In her experience, law firms didn't own cars, they leased them new every year, which had Jessica's fingers punching through a throw-down phone she pulled out of her desk drawer. First time used; last time it would be used; and, she'd pulled on surgical gloves before yanking it out of its packaging.

"Heeeeey!" she said brightly, going totally suburb with her accent. "This is Lita with Jett Leasing! Hey, listen, we just picked up a ton of files from a buyout, an outfit that leased one to you guys? Oh, God, I don't know, I just salute and make calls, I think it called Smith Leases, or maybe that was the CEO, or - yeah, headache! My company's got me chasing down the drivers, because we _do_ want to be sure everything is going fine with the car and we _will_ make it right if not. You got somebody there at Lawson, Stiviano, I can check with on – yeah, sure, I can wait."

She turned in her chair, staring down the hallway to her bedroom, then swiveled back, taking a swig of Teacher's. She yanked the bottle away. "Ulppp. Yeah, hey, sorry." She went back through the story. "So, I just saw we placed a 2018 Lexus ES, license plate … ummm. Here." She read it. "Right. Insurance requires –" _you gotta take a leap of faith sometimes_ " —only one driver, is he or she around? Ah, okay. Can I leave a message for – I'm sorry, what was the name? Ah."

She scrawled it out: _Sylviana Packard._

She glanced up and chirped into the phone. "Hey, somebody from Hurst, Euless & Bedford is here," she said. "Lemme get back with you." She punched out and slid the phone into one of the zip-lock baggies she kept in another drawer, pulling off her gloves. She'd dump the phone out of the bag on the next bus or subway car she used.

She ran through her Tor to XenoMail route into a XenoMail account she ran for covert communications in the time-honored manner that webmail was used for such. She was surprised to see a note from Karen Page. Or, specifically, an email in the draft file that was "Re: Lois", signifying Karen had made the draft. It would never be sent. By sharing the account, and thus all drafts, they could communicate as easily with email with less dangers of interception.

Karen's note read: "Word is 'the laptop is everything'. All I know. Don't know what laptop or anything else. But this came from a priest with ties to a devil. Who may not be dead?"

Two quiet raps drew Jessica's attention up. Smithie had just knocked on the door as if anything more than would break an eggshell might shatter the glass. Jess invited her in, gesturing to a chair, noticing how the girl had avoided her direct look, fidgeting. "So."

"So," Smithie said.

"So, I'm swamped, and I need some help. And I told the agency I wanted you."

"They said," the girl nodded. "I was kinda surprised."

"Why? You're smart and you're cool under pressure." Jess spread her hands. "What, you don't think getting _shot at_ together doesn't count for something?"

Smithie's smile warmed even as the girl grimaced. "That was a bit intense."

"Yeah," Jessica grimaced. _Well, I'm the target here … right? She's safe._

She pretended it was merely a memory, not another hallucinatory echo, when she heard _safe_ spoken in Kilgrave's voice, even when it was followed by the condescending aside: _we talked about this, Jess-i-caaa, no one is 'safe' around you._

 _Main,_ Jess shook her head. _Birch. Higgins. Cobalt._ "Anyway. This is a new case. And frankly, it's a lot more important than serving some dickwad rich kid congressman with divorce papers."

The girl's eyebrows arched.

Jessica ran Smithie through everything she knew about Rebecca Cross and her disappearance. The assistant focused on her now, listening, taking no notes – but Jess doubted the girl would forget a single detail.

She tapped the accordion file. "Her uncle had apparently had someone put together everything they could find in her room, and gave it to me in this," Jessica frowned. "I'd assumed he got the stuff, but her mom told me he sent one of his employees." She slung the backpack up to the desktop. "In here? More crap, just stuff her mom found laying around after that. I've been through the file, but this …."

Smithie nodded. "You need me to go through it."

"That would be great," Jessica said. She paused, shifting on her feet. "For starters. Hey, listen, about the other day?"

Smithie raised her hand. "I was being a baby. I was a spoiled fan girl." Her voice dropped. "You know, I asked for the job when I first heard you'd called the agency."

"I figured. And I'm flattered."

"I would never have had the guts to even say 'hi' to you in the street, and suddenly we were working together, and then I – I thought I blew it. Sorry. It won't happen again."

Jess shrugged and offered her a smile. "Well, friends fight, so … it could happen again. Just don't sweat it." She glanced at the desk where Malcolm used to work. "I'm terrible at letting people who help me know I appreciate their work, so let me just say it now and – yeah."

Smithie had started glowing when "friends" left Jessica's lips. But she visibly pushed herself to maintain her idol's cool. "NBD," she said. She pointed at the cork board. "So, you stay in touch with the Avengers' crowd?"

But in the girl's smile, Jessica saw an odd glow. _In my head,_ she told herself, but that didn't make the purple glow go away.

" _Dragged our plump little fly back into the web, eh, Jess? Don't care if this one lives or dies, then?" Kilgrave's chuckle rattled, husks against reeds. "You don't have a death waiver for her to sign, yet, though. Chop-chop, better get that drawn up and standard for all your employees. Friends. Family. Clients. Eh, Ms. Jones?_

"Ms. Jones?" Smithie asked.

"What?" Jess turned, looking at the plethora of pictures and drawings there. "I don't – what?"

"Just asking, so you know Maria Hill?" Smithie said. "You and her, you work together?" She laughed, pointing at the board again. "I told you, I'm a fan girl. I may not have met many, but I know who everybody is on sight, even the ones that tend to stay out of sight."

Jessica half-turned and followed the line from Smithie's finger to the sketch of Shooter Girl. "That's Maria Hill? _The_ Maria Hill? S.H.I.E.L.D. Maria Hill?"

" _Ah, Shooter Girl has a name, does she? Well, good to see someone is having fun," Kilgrave laughed. "Now I'm dead and gone."_

Smithie was nodding. "I heard she's on Team Stark, these days. She's got quite a rep. Wait, you didn't know who she … why's she on your board?" Smithie blanched at the look on the PI's face as she turned back around. "What?"

"It's okay," Jessica said, forcing a plastic smile. "Hey, just – that backpack, if you could catalog the litter, that would be great. I've got – I gotta go. Need some fresh air." She snatched her jacket off the back of her chair and blew out of the room, pausing only to point and say, "You can use this desk here if you want."

* * *

[Transcript]

 _Static._

Male #1: "She's on the street. Spinning."

 _Static. Garbled flicker. Keyed snap._

Female #1: "She's _what?"_

Male #2: "She's … spinning. [Laughter] Looks upset or something."

Female#1: "Drunk again, maybe? Think she's seen the news?"

Male: #1: "Some people just can't handle a little pressure."

[Laughter]

Male #2: "Hey – she's got company coming up fast but I don't think she knows it yet. It's – holy shit."

[Audio spike cross-feed]

Female #1: "Repeat?"

Male #1: "It's that girl – fuck is _her_ code name?"

Male #2: "All these [static] names, man."

Female #2: "Can the chatter. Shoot a vid but otherwise we're 10-3."

[Two quick key snaps]

[Static]

[Silence eight seconds – run-time ends]

* * *

Jess stopped. She plowed her hand through her hair. _Focus._

She pulled her phone. Still nothing back from Avengers HQ. She anger-punched in a number, and texted: "U GOT 4 HRS." She paused, then added: "ASSHOLE." She assumed that would both authenticate her as the sender and specify who she wanted to talk to in particular.

 _Okay, Jess. Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins – wait._

Looking up, she peered very carefully in the direction opposite of the one she was listening to so hard if she was a wolf her ears would have swiveled. She counted the steps coming up behind her, then whirled, her left arm sweeping against a slender, approaching girl, moving her back against the wall even as the girl took Jessica's wrist and spun her with an agility that Jess knew wasn't merely human.

"Shit!" the brown-haired waif snapped, Jessica leaning into the spin, sweeping the girl's legs from under her with her own, and using her own super-strength to put her on the sidewalk amid gasps and curses by those around them.

"What do you want?" Jess yelled. "Who are you?"

The girl stared back with preternatural calm. "You're _crark-crarking bezoomy,"_ she replied. "All's _droogie,_ 'k?" The girl stared into Jessica's eyes, and moved her hand so slowly Jess allowed it. She tapped the bulb of the PI's nose, and pulled her fingertip back, a thick silken web in the wake. As she curled her finger, the web snapped away and wrapped around the tip.

Jessica eased off of her, and both women took their feet. The crowd around them moved back and away, wanting no more part of – whatever this was.

The girl whirled her fingers as if to describe a softball, but an intricate web pattern formed, a cat's cradle.

"It's cool," she said, soothingly, making Jess feel foolish, being calmed down by a slip of a girl. "Name's Mattie Franklin. I was just coming to see you."

* * *

"Hey?"

Ian Soo looked up, but his customer service smile fell when he saw Denny Haynes standing across the counter. "Haynes," he said. "How you doing?"

"Didn't know you worked here," he said, looking around. "Comic book store's a good idea. Suppose they don't mind, you being – well, you know." At the blank look Soo returned, he smiled. "Oh, they don't know, do they?"

"Hasn't come up," Ian told him. "I just started today."

Haynes held up his palms to face Soo. "Don't worry, dude, no way I'd out you." He slid his hands in his pockets. "Just hope this shit is tied down, unless you're getting those powers under control." He shrugged. "Look, no reason can't be jiggy between us, right? Maybe you don't like me dealing street mist, but a lotta people want it. Me? I'm just getting the C.R.E.A.M.. Somebody's gonna. You don't wanna respect the game, maybe just respect me, what do you say?"

Soo shifted on his feet, but looked away, eyebrows scrunched a bit. "Well …."

"Whatever," Haynes said. "Just saying, I respect _you_ , man, you got power, you're lit legit. So … you tell them here what you want, when you want, if you want. I ain't sayin' shit." He ducked his head when Ian looked back at him. "We cool?"

"We're cool," Soo shrugged. He shook Haynes' hand grudgingly, then processed the DC Comics Denny had on the counter. "Think DCEU will ever get the films right?"

"Don't care," Haynes laughed, taking the bag from him. "Gotta be hitting some of what I'm selling to make it through most of them right now. Looking forward to the _Birds_ , though. They're lining up some sweet-ass dimes to star in that one." He nodded and started to make his way out, but snapped his fingers and turned. "Hey, you know Hellcat, right? Like, you're tight?"

Soo shrugged.

"Just want to meet her, man. Apologize for the other night. Buy her a drink."

Soo hedged. "I'll ask."

"Cool," he said.

* * *

Mattie and Smithie were deep in convo. Jessica understood so little of the _Nadsat_ and street slang they slung back and forth that she felt she was one arched eyebrow away from retirement. Worse yet, she was no more than one right guess away from being "well duhhed," into aged irrelevancy.

Not that she hadn't made a little connection to Franklin, right after they went in. They'd exchanged a look as Jess took her chair, and while Smithie was facing her – one that ended with an emphatic shake of the head from Mattie. _Okay, so Smithie doesn't know about the spidey shit,_ Jessica had thought. _No diming out a powered sister. Jess had nodded back._

She listened to their gossip, committing the details to memory, not knowing what might turn out to be relevant to finding Rebecca Cross. Right now, all she knew was that _Mattie_ was damned relevant to finding Rebecca. She'd been on the top of a now shorter list of people Jess had been going to track down.

The two rattled back and forth, Smithie obviously thrilled that a friend had stumbled onto her in the presence of one of their community's idols. Mattie herself had drifted into a very natural teenager's pop-and-sass, talking movies, girls, bands, boys, Smithie's obsession with sushi and photography, Mattie's obsession with the best protein shakes and her sewing hobby. Ultimately, everything centered around The Excelsior and this Annie Jones Society.

"So, she totally took that Watchdog out," Smithie enthused. "Max found him wrapped in a web on a pole. Goddamn, Spider-Woman is bad-ass."

Mattie's eyes barely flickered through a protective sheen. "She's all right. But, Hellcat, what did she do with the other two?"

"Carried them off?" Smithie guessed. "I don't know. Just made them _not there_ anymore is how somebody put it."

"What, like a magic act?" Franklin tipped her chin.

Smithie laughed. "Well, I assumed scooped 'em up to the roof or something, but they're saying Hellcat's got some serious Crowley to go with the moves, so maybe. Yeah. I – what?" Her head snapped around as Jessica's palm rose in her periphery vision. "Yeah, boss?"

 _Boss?_ Jess let it go. "Who is Hellcat?"

The two ran it down. Smithie was wide-eyed and credulous; Mattie offered enough info to stay in the game, but it was obvious to Jessica that little Miss Spidey was also fishing for all the extra info she could glean from the fan girl.

And this went beyond the costumed blonde woman with catlike reflexes and abilities, plus a side order of magic tricks. The intensely observant Smithie's grasp of the relationships, names, and flow of action all around her now reminded Jess of the intellect and empathy that had caused her to admire the would-be film-maker in the first place.

Eventually, it was only Smithie talking. And, inevitably, she began to realize it and began blinking, fidgeting. Jess had started taking notes and had to motion her to keep the girl going. Starting at the beginning, she sketched a time-line for this new player, an odd intuition curling uncomfortably in her stomach that grew into a conviction.

 _New player, blonde hair, my age, came along just after my mother was murdered, serious krav skills, insists on wearing a damn costume, of course …._ She sighed. _Damn it. Of course she'd insist on a camel-toe armor suit._

Finally, she eased back in her chair, and asked, "This magic they're saying she's showing now, along with the whole cat-like powers thing. Anything on where that would come from?"

And while Smithie's raven curls bounced with his shaking head, the slight nod from Mattie Franklin caught Jessica's eye. She nodded back, clearly communicating _later_ and then covered it with a smooth segue. "Okay. So. Mattie, let's get back to you. Why are you here, again?"

"Rebecca Cross."

Smithie looked startled, but Jess simply nodded, not looking down as she tapped the postcard she'd slid to the top of the stack of paper on her desk. "You know her?"

Franklin shifted in her chair. "She's my girlfriend."

"Really?" Jess said. "You visit Lago a lot?"

The other girl shrugged. "She comes down here; I go up there; we text, we write. We met during an Annie Jones thing, this photography show in tents deal. Dewitt-Clinton Park. I don't think she's ever even been to The Excelsior. She's kinda shy."

Jessica flipped the postcard from the file over the desk. "What did you mean," she asked, watching Mattie's reaction very carefully, "when you asked when she would surprise you?"

The girl stared at the card through a sudden shine of tears that instantly made Jess feel like an asshole. "Coming to the city," the younger woman managed finally. She wiped her eyes and drew herself back upright in her chair. "Rebecca is very spontaneous. She'd like to surprise me, said she'd surprise me with a visit soon and – crap! And I asked her to come down here, didn't I?"

"You had nothing to do," Jessica said, "with whatever has gone wrong for Rebecca."

"Yeah, but if I hadn't asked …." Mattie shook her head.

"Not. Your. Fault." Jones narrowed her eyes. "What are Rebecca's powers, anyway?"

Mattie laughed bitterly. "Oh, God – you've been talking to the village idiots up there in Lago? She didn't have powers. That rumor got started because she was gay and she became fascinated with people who do have powers – since we're kinda shunned these days."

"Her uncle thinks she's powered."

"How would he know?" Mattie scoffed. "They text, like, every six months. An email now and then. He hasn't even seen her since he got back from the war. Nah, he's just hearing the Lago buzz."

"Witch trials," Smithie muttered, which drew quizzical looks form Jess and Mattie. "You know – she's different, she's artistic, she doesn't want to fall in line, and she's female. So she's a 'witch'. Burn her. Same logic."

Mattie leaned a bit closer to Smithie. "You okay? You got a – just there, a …."

Smithie blinked, running her hand over a bruise behind her ear that Jess kicked herself for not having noticed. "Oh. Mugger."

Jessica sat upright. "Good God, Smithie, why didn't you tell me? You okay?"

She looked at Jess. "Filed a report, I'm good to go."

"You're sure?" Jess waited through her nod, then turned to the other girl. "Any thoughts on suspects, Mattie?"

The girl thought, then shook her head. "Watchdogs, obviously. I don't know. Denny Haynes? He deals street mist. Took a run at me a couple times. First time, I was 'Spider-Woman' – he's a cape-chaser. Second time I wasn't suited up. He thought I was just some chick, and he claimed he was powered, but he was just misted up to make an impression. I hate it when people lie to me. And he never took the hint I wasn't into guys." She shrugged. "Probably wasn't crazy about it when he saw me kissing Rebecca at the Excelsior one night."

Jessica started to pursue that when her cell buzzed. She glanced at the screen to see a reply to her text. A time, day after next, and an address. "Avenger Trivia, fan girls," she said. "177A Bleecker Street mean anything to do you?"

The young women across from her looked at each other with wary glances.

"What?"

"Doctor Strange," Smithie said.

Jones shrugged.

"Jessica – Jessica _Drew_ – told me he's the Avengers resident wizard," Mattie explained. At Smithie's raised eyebrows, Mattie went on. "I met Drew at a – thing. Few weeks ago. Long story."

Jess frowned. She hadn't known Jessica Drew had visited New York since she hung up her cape. _Well, she didn't wear a cape, just that outfit that was as ridiculous as Devil Boy's._

Smithie gasped. "You know Spider-Woman?"

"She's retired," Mattie answered flatly. "There's someone new in the mask, now."

Jessica nodded. Drew was a Bay Area PI these days, and the parallel with herself had fascinated Jones distantly. It also made her wonder if she was seen as a bit of a discount knockoff in the superheroes' world, which made her resent Drew.

 _Hell, they even offered her a West Coast job just to keep her in the fold_.

But Jess suspected she was so little on their radar anymore, she could disappear entirely for months and they wouldn't notice. They probably didn't compare her to – anyone.

Maybe she'd ask this Dr. Strange.

 _Boy, I bet_ he _wears a cape. The fuck they sending me to a wizard for?_ Jessica thought. _Well, at least we can get this shit out in the open. Things are looking up._

Just then, a little ship bell sound on her laptop let her know things might be heading back down.

* * *

"It's precisely because it is a small amount," Dinah Madani was saying, "that it caught my attention."

Costa nodded. "I get it."

Sitting between them on the table was a 302 form, forwarded to Homeland Security by the FBI SAC in San Francisco. The witness statement detailed drug transactions in the Bay Area, cut-and-bag amounts, on a shipment that originated in LA. Power enhancers, mostly – street drugs for those seeking to emulate the gifted, the mutated, the inhumans, the aliens.

Costa lifted his gaze to just over Dinah's shoulder and stared through the plate glass walling the room off from the hallway, where Tony Stark was pacing. He radiated boredom and annoyance.

Madani noticed and sighed. "Again, Eddy. We've got to keep the Avengers just close enough they can't deny knowledge of what's happening on the street."

"But let them stay far enough away to keep their hands clean," he replied tartly.

"Far enough to keep them from interfering with us." Madani rubbed her eyes. "Let's not have this discussion again, please."

"What does it matter if this –" Costa checked his notes. "Heat. This cockroach had a user amount of 'Heat' shipped his way, so?"

"Heat even impacts the strongest of the powered population. Powerful hallucinogenic, highly addictive, causes blackouts. Mainly an LA thing, but Bree Morrel with the Frisco PD alerted the FBI ASAC when one of her CI's reported a reroute through the Bay Area."

Costa shrugged.

"All for one single shot amount," Madani said. "One capsule. They're looking to slide this super-roofie to someone, one time. Incapacitate her – and I'm betting it's a her – with her memory getting wiped while she's in wonderland."

Costa snorted. "Rookie move, though, what with the way they're moving it, putting a flashlight on it like that. Emphasizes that we're dealing with expert politicians playing street power games, not real gangsters playing politics."

Madani nodded. "Whatever they're doing with their target, she's coming out of the experience with no idea what happened and a powerful need for something she can't even identify."

"Got it," Costa said. "He's using something that can definitely take down a powered woman." He paused, then puffed out an angry breath. "And once she's hooked, he's got her as his muscle from now on."

Dinah nodded.

"So," he repeated. "We pop the little weasel when it gets here." He looked up when she sighed heavily. "What? We know who he is, right? Or -" he checked his notes "— damn it, from what this Lt. Morrel said, this shit should be already by now, right?"

"We know who he is. He's mixed up with the same crew that's been pushing the tech on the streets. What we don't know is where he is. His place was cleaned out, rent and cleaning deposit cleared for cash, and nobody's seen him in over twenty-four hours."

"Team Golden Boy wants the little creep out-of-sight. This move matters to them." He picked up the dealer's NCIS print-out. "So, we need eyes on this creep. But he's one of thousands. Juvie, some busts after that, petty shit, then this guy went off the radar two years ago."

Madani slumped in her chair, frowning. She drummed her finger pads on the table top. "But given the profile of his target? I'm betting somebody in the powered community knows this Denny Haynes."

* * *

Jessica had turned the laptop so Mattie and Smithie could watch as she reran the news report. The ding on her computer had been from an auto alert to anything turning up on local news sites with "Jessica Jones" and "detective" in the story. The written summary had caused the alert, but it was the video report – and the vid within the vid - that was most alarming

"Again," the reporter was saying with a concern well practiced and trained, "what you're seeing is video taken by a consultant to the NYPD who was on site the afternoon a Ms. Miranda Pritchett was found dead of gunshot wounds. The woman you're looking at appears to be watching the investigation from that vantage point and has been positively identified as super-powered private investigator Jessica Jones. Now, police haven't made an arrest yet and are with-holding details, but my source tell me there was a substantial amount of street-level 'powered' drugs, such as is used by ordinary kids to gain – temporarily – enhanced abilities. As you know, these drugs are very dangerous, and several deaths –"

Jess stopped it. It was the third time they'd watched it together. They knew it ended with a note vaguely termed "related" (leaving the connection to the viewers) about two Watchdogs killed while "protesting" outside the Excelsior, their bodies whisked away by some "unknown person or persons", as a third was unconscious on a light pole, body wrapped in "a binding police sources identify as associated with the powered community."

The three women sat, staring at the frozen screen, where Jessica's old mug shot held pride of place above the station's logo.

"It's a lie hidden in conjecture," Mattie seethed. "Goddamn, I hate liars."

"This woman, this Miranda Pritchett?" Smithie asked quietly. "They'd just found her body. Why were they filming a roof on the other side of the street? That makes no sense."

"It does make _some_ sense," Mattie said, lifting her gaze to meet Jessica's stare. "Doesn't it? I mean if -"

Jess waved her off. "I try not to assume anything."

"But you suspect it."

"Hey, who knows what our betters get up to with their time?" Jones shrugged. She twirled a fingertip over the desk top. "You ever run into Maria Hill, by the way?"

Mattie looked genuinely puzzled. "Noooo … she's, what, with the Avengers, now? Or just Stark? I've lost track. Why?"

"I'm … thinking. And I need a long walk for that. May as well start getting these posted. We _do_ have an actual missing person to find." She held up a copy of the MISSING poster she'd printed for Rebecca, then rifled the rest into a thick roll and slid a rubber band down it. "Smithie, take a look through the backpack for me."

"I'm happy to help her," Mattie said. "I know her, so …."

"Yeah," Jessica said. "Something might strike you that wouldn't her. Although, Smithie's pretty sharp." She smiled at Smithie, who looked at the floor.

As Jess was pulling her jacket back off the chair, Smithie invited her to The Excelsior that night. Mattie – surprised she'd never been there – added, "You'd _own_ the place. And anyway, maybe Hellcat will show up again. You two should meet. And it'd be so great if Jessica Drew was back in town, I bet she'd help you out. She's awesome."

"She's strictly Bay Area since she retired the mask," Jones answer. "San Francisco and Oakland."

"Yeah, I know," Smithie said. "I got her card last time she was at the Ex for a visit."

Jessica frowned in surprise. "She gave you her card?"

Smithie was already digging it out. "Said if we ever needed anything, me or the Lace or the Ex, give her a call. Like Mattie said, she's really cool."

Jones felt jealous for a moment and ashamed of it, seeing all the hero worship drain over to her rival PI over on the left coast.

 _Get a grip, you can't start liking this hero shit._

She held up her cell phone, and Smithie said, "Oh, yeah, sure! Totally. You two should meet." Jessica went to where Smithie held up the card and snapped a photo of it.

"Just watch out for the Watchdogs down there," Jess told them, stuffing a full flask in her pocket, slinging her duffle bag over her shoulder.

"That's what we could use you for," Smithie told her.

Jessica looked at Mattie before replying. "I think you'll be in good hands." She jammed the poster roll into her packet and made her way outside.

 _I hope._


	7. Ep 7: AKA Potato, Stupado

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 7: AKA Potato, Stupado**

* * *

Trish might almost have been Spider-Woman herself the way she swung from pipes to landings to roofs to ladders, using her balance, her claws, her grappling hook, sling-rushing back to her apartment.

Ian Soo's short terse text ("YUR PLC NOW!") had launched her there, mind racing with nightmare scenarios that the Watchdogs had him. She didn't expect him to be there when she arrived, but it was the only place to start.

She came through her window, sliding to a stop, to find Ian sitting wide eyed but unharmed.

Her step-sister was sitting across from him, legs crossed underneath herself, leaning forward, hands folded, staring at him from beneath the cowl of her hoodie.

"Tell her to keep her laser eyes cool, Hellcat!" Soo snapped.

"Ian?" Trish tilted her chin, shoulders slumped. "She doesn't have laser eyes."

"Said she did," he muttered, staring at Jessica angrily. "She busted in here. I tried to stop her. Said if I tried to use my powers again on her, she'd fry me inside with her laser eyes."

"And you just believed her?"

"No. I mean, maybe." He fidgeted. "Well – sure. Word on the street is Jessica Jones has laser eyes."

"Jesus, hang out in strip clubs much?" Jessica mocked him. She turned back to her sister. "Anyway, welcome home. Hellcat. Which, by the way – _Hellcat?_ Seriously?"

Trish sighed. "I didn't come up with the name, Jess, it just sorta happened."

"Well, somebody came up with that outfit. Nice horns, by the way."

"They're ears."

"Potato, stupado."

"You didn't tell me you knew Jessica Jones," Ian half-whispered with awe.

"She really doesn't," Jess muttered. She pointed at Ian. "You. Poltergeist Kid. Go grab a coffee. I need to talk to Puss-n-Boots." He started to protest, but Jess pointed at her eyes. "Don't make me use you to disclose a whole new skill set to Hades' little kitten, here."

He glanced at Trish, who nodded once. When the door closed behind him, Jessica snorted. "Nice boy toy."

"Just a stray I took in," Trish sighed. "New to his powers, needed a place to stay. Things are getting rough out there."

"Yeah. Bet you make it much smoother in here."

"Okay. Okay. You're still pissed about my fling with Malcolm. I get it, Jess, but Jesus, it's not like you had something going on with him."

Jones rolled her eyes. "No, right, he was just sitting there, waiting to get fucked over by some crazy ex-coke-head bitch high on IGH mist while he was trying to stay off heroin."

Tears stung Trish's eyes. "Wow. Just ... wow, Jess, I knew you hated me, but. Wow."

"Whatever, Miss Kitty. I don't give a fuck about you sucking Malcolm dry, or about the rest of Manhattan you managed to fuck at the time. Just surprised your demographic has turned to the homeless."

"Oh, I'm a slut, now? That's something, coming from you, Jess. Ian's boyfriend is named Tom, by the way, and he'll be back in town from a summer at Oxford soon. Like I said, Ian's new to his powers, and the streets are no place for him to be."

Jess's head swiveled to level rage in her direction. "No shit. Two dead Watchdogs outside The Excelsior? Makes me wonder. Is murder still how Trish Walker does hero?"

Hellcat shifted her weight. "Wasn't me. All I've been doing is looking after those kids out there. Who need you, by the way."

"Well, they wouldn't if people in silly ass costumes weren't running around being vigilantes. Gives our haters all the fuel they need to keep stoking the fires. What a damn shame we never had anybody in media with an audience to counter those assholes. Well, I mean, you know - somebody who might have stuck with it."

Trish sat, grinding her jaw through a few heart thumps, before she was able to answer evenly. "What do you want from me, Jessica?"

Jess twisted her head, mugging, jaw slung low by a frown. "How about dry cleaning? I got a tee-shirt with my mother's brains all over it." She lifted the lapels of her jacket. "It would help if they do leather, too. I love this damn thing. But I guess some stains just don't come out, do they?" She sighed. "Okay, two dead, but if it wasn't you, then it wasn't you. Make sure it never is or you'll only wish I had laser eyes."

She stood, starting toward the door, but Trish launched toward her. It was rapid fire: Trish's hand flashing onto Jessica's arm, Jessica's fist flying at her head, Trish ducking not so much with extraordinary speed as preternatural agility. Eyes wide, she backed away from Jess.

Jessica looked from the couch to where Trish stood, replaying what she'd seen. "Did you just sorta …. Fast float here?" She settled flat on her feet, jaw ajar, eyes darkening. "Is that this magic shit I've been hearing about? Crap, I don't even know what you're capable of. Do you?"

"No." Trish ran her palm over her face. "Jess, I need help with all this."

"Good you know that," Jess nodded slowly. "Better figure it out and lock it down, _Hellcat_. I gotta go." She turned but stopped at Trish's quiet plea.

"Jessica, can't we just talk? Why can't we just … talk anymore?"

Jess kept turned away, not wanting Trish to see the pain in her eyes. "Little tip for New York's newest super-sensation," she snarked over her shoulder. "Killing somebody's mom doesn't promote intimacy. Usually."

"Jess, I –"

"Own it!" She turned, salt stinging her eyes, tears shining on her cheeks. "And now this? This whole powers shit? Jesus, Trish, you know more than anybody alive what my life has been. Why do you have such a suicidally dangerous hard on to _be_ me?"

Trish's eyes were green crystal, the shock in them genuine. "Jessica, you can literally _fly!"_

"Again, it's more like controlled falling. So, yeah, a perfect metaphor for my life." She shifted, drawing a finger quickly under her nose, then several over her face, drying her cheeks. She half turned, then turned back, fidgeting. "And I didn't ask for any of it."

"And I did. I get that. I'm just trying to be sure it's not one more dead-end career choice."

Jessica scoffed. "Well, then, work on it, like me, like Luke, like everybody else with this curse. Welcome to being a hero."

"It's not about just the powers, Jess, you know that. You're the hero I want to be. You got to be needed. By Hell's Kitchen. And most people don't even know it, but you wound up needed by New York City, itself. The whole damn city needed you!"

"And in the whole damn world," Jess replied, "you were the only person I needed. I'm sorry that wasn't the hero you wanted to be."

She turned and left Hellcat open-mouthed, slamming the door behind her. Trish plopped to the couch and buried her face in her hands.

* * *

"I wanted to mention again," the nun said, "that your generosity to the sisters vastly exceeds the care we give. Which we're happy to give for free." She had offered to help him take the computer bag off his shoulder and showed some surprise when he allowed it for the first time, though she was careful to put it on the couch next to where he'd sit and likely sleep if he followed true to form.

"I know," Lawson said. "But this lets you give it to him and to so many others."

He put his jacket over the back of a hard-backed chair, then pulled it up next to the armchair where his father sat, staring at the TV. The couch was just on the other side, Lawson sitting between it and his dad's armchair for now.

The older man had that mix of tight flesh and eye bags common to trauma survivors, along with the blank gaze. "Has he had any luck with the prosthesis?"

The sister hesitated. "I meet with the therapist every day, here, in the house, and he's getting around some. The truth is …"

"… it's in his head." Lawson tilted his chin, running his palm over his dad's scalp gently. The old man was in one of those fugue states, hearing nothing right now, eyes dancing with the light of the television in front of him. "He'll never get over what happened that day. I don't mean him, I mean his friends, his fellow officers, all while he watched, fought." He stroked his father's hand, then gripped it firmly. "Nothing he could do."

"I wasn't there," the nun hesitated. "But I've heard it was horrifying. And of course – well." She gestured at his missing leg.

"He's alive, unlike so many others," Lawson said, though clearly this was no real consolation to him personally. "They dug him out alive – eventually."

He pointed at the laptop in its bag. "I've got spreadsheets in there. It's ungodly. Buildings collapse and all the substandard materials turn into soot and ash. Ten to thirty thousand cancer cases by the end of this decade. About five times that with other crippling or flat-out deadly diseases, emphysema, all kinds of things. Cops, firemen, hit the worst, of course, but a lot of 'regular' folks, people who stuck around – or even showed up – just to help dig people out. That's just New York – there's DC, there's Sokovia, there's …." He shook his head. "Well. None of this was happening until these freaks surfaced. All we can do now is what has to be done to prevent any more damage."

"You mean these Accords the news is all about?"

He snorted. "Worthless. Paper means nothing to monsters." He looked at the screen, his gaze softening. "He's still watching those reruns?"

"Every night. Over and over. Cartoon Network, Boomerang Channel. He likes _Boy Meets World. Hey, Arnold."_

Lawson nodded. "We watched all those together. He'd come home, from working a fire, and we'd sit up late watching." He turned, smiled at his dad's vacant face, then looked back at the screen. "Yeah. _Boy Meets World_. When I got a bit older."

He changed the subject, running through everything from the latest sports news – the nun knew a surprising amount about professional boxing – through to his lapsed Catholicism, about which she again gently chided him.

Lawson had come to enjoy these chats, the only "normal" conversation he had these days. He turned the conversation toward the nun, quizzing her on her day, her friends; not prying, but showing a genuine interest. The sister herself was interesting; guarded, and haunted, a vulnerability that combined with her care given to his father caused him to take a protective interest in her.

Weirdly, ever since she'd dropped by his offices unsolicited with an offer for her communal society to care for his dad, he'd come to think of her as the only real friend he had, however distant the relationship was.

And his father, in his lucid moments, adored the nun as a familial sister, not simply as a spiritual one. It seemed he really only came to life when she was around.

Finally, Lawson let silence take root and grow before he said, "I'm not going back to the city tonight. I'm spending the night, so you should head on back home. Or you're welcome to use the guest room to sleep." He shoved back in his chair, his hand on his father's arm. "I appreciate all you do for him."

"You pay us enough to take care of ten more."

"He put me through law school on a fireman's pay," Lawson said. "He'd want it this way. And he likes it up here. When he's lucid. Nice little neighborhood, kinda like Patterson." He glanced her way. "Where he raised me."

"I've got a bit of supper on the stove for when the time comes. That stew he likes. Sometimes he thinks he's back in the firehouse." She shrugged. "It makes him happy. Just not as happy when he thinks he's watching _Boy Meets World_ with you for the first time. I don't say that to make you sad – you should be glad, proud, you made such good memories for him, giving him a place to go to now. Anyway, it's there when you two are ready."

"Sounds good," Lawson nodded. He gestured at his father. "Thank you, Sister Margaret."

"I've told you," she smiled. "It's just Maggie." She bid his father goodbye.

The old man turned with a wan smile and gave her a half-wave, light shining in his eyes.

She glanced at the laptop bag, then made her way to the door.

* * *

"Oh, for God's –" Jessica's voice sank into a low groan. She snapped the cowl of her hoodie up and over her head, yanking it at the sides to conceal her face. "My freaking _mugshot?_ Seriously?"

She stared at the wall outside The Excelsior. How had she so quickly lost track of the world beyond her self-made bubble? She'd kept to the shadows for a while, but not this long, surely?

No – the girls had told her this was all still fresh, still new, and despite her horror at seeing her face front and center (if off kilter, with a corner of the poster peeling away) she continued to resist the energetic vibe surrounding the place. The kids arrived in cliques but became a single crowd of friends, milling around, introducing themselves, making it a bit easier for Jessica to slip through and go to the wall.

All amid Watchdogs on the prowl, circling in a pack around them.

She went about the business of posting Rebecca's "MISSING" handbill, finding a spot high but wide enough among the other various posters. She arched up, careful to keep her face concealed by the hoodie, at least for the most part.

She heard grumbling to her left. A voice mocked someone, "What are you looking at freak?" A body slammed against the wall; feet scampered away. Jess sensed someone else cruise past her, checking her out, then moving on with the menace of camp guard.

When she took her feet flat again, several of the kids had crowded around, muttering to each other, one asking her if she was a friend of the missing girl.

"Just someone who hopes she's safe and who wants to be sure," Jess told him. "Anybody here, like, know her? Or heard anything?"

There was an adolescent squawk to her right, followed by a thug's, "Go back to the lab, splice-head."

She kept her chin dipped down, the hoodie around her, feeling almost like a cloistered nun. It was a thought that amused her, and she wondered what her late friend Matt Murdoch would have made it from the standpoint of his devout Catholicism. She chanced a tilt of her head up to insure the MISSING poster was secure. A gruff voice came from behind her.

"Who says that bitch _needs_ found?"

She turned and ran right into a man's barrel chest. He was wearing a tee-shirt with the name Watchdogs on it, complete with a fearsome logo.

"Jesus, is _everything_ branded these days?" she sputtered, stepping back. She looked up at him. "You got a problem?"

"Dunno. Do we?"

"I don't. That's why I was asking you."

"He means, maybe _we_ do," another Dog said. She half-turned, at the hip, glancing over to see a second Watchdog leering at her, mid-twenties, 'roided. His gaze took its time coming up from her feet to her face. He rolled his shoulders. "Seems to me, some freak's gone missing, we ought to celebrate, not try to get her back for Christ's sake."

Jess tried to brush past him, but he caught her, whirled her as she refused to exert her strength and give herself away.

But now he was staring right into her hood; right at her face.

"Shit!" He pointed at Jessica's mugshot poster, then back at the PI. "Donny, that's her. The super-bitch."

She turned on her heel and headed the other way, aware that already the kids milling around had stopped to stare. A third Watchdog peeled his back off the wall to block her path. Her gaze swept over them. The postures screamed amateur, there was no way they'd coordinate. Hell, they'd probably do the usual bar-fight thing of going one at a time but remembering it as a team effort.

But there was no doubt they intended to grab the small, slender woman with the hoodie and beat her ass down. Two more now drifted up to join them.

Jessica had always eschewed formal training, but she'd picked up enough bar chat (and experience) that she never watched a possible assailant's hands, shoulders, or – cliché of suicidal clichés – his eyes.

The hips.

All aggressive movement begins there. Even if a split-second earlier, the slightest motion in the hips is always the fastest tell, so the Watchdog's movement into a roundhouse kick was telegraphed to her one synaptic click after being a thought in his brain. The only thought in her head was a mantra: _slide the cone._

She scooped his ankle underneath with her palm and could easily have flipped him to his back. With her strength driving the spin, this might have snapped his neck. Instead, she used his instinctive hop to regain balance to yank him forward. Reflexively, he leaned forward, making it easier to grip his shoulder with her free hand, flinging him to his ass and hoping he had the sense to –

Of course, he didn't have the sense to stay down. He snarled, flinging himself at her, fists flying uncontrolled. She snapped her arms, bladed, outward in a V pattern, slinging his arms away, then followed immediately with a chopping punch to his throat. She pulled it, mindful of her strength, but it was enough to send him spluttering, wail-gasping, to his knees.

Jessica had been in too many street fights to be watching him. Both blood pressure and mental focus produced tunnel vision in a brawl.

 _Slide the cone. Ke_ _ep moving your eyes._

So as his buddy rushed her for a blindside blitz, she was already spinning.

His move was so predictable, in fact, that her left hand was already bladed, arm flexed, as she whirled on one heel. She was rewarded with a slap-crunch as her arm met his even as the third wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her from her feet. Her heels snapped hard into the bottom of his knee-caps as the back of her head ruined his nose. She fell free, leaning into the reflexive bend of her waist toward the first 'Dog, who stumbled to his feet.

His fist had been headed for her ear and as she lurched forward, he was just recovering from the spin her left hand had thrown him into. Her right caught his ear with a stiff jab of the heel of her palm. He stumbled back, blinking and shaking his head wildly, limp game as she seized his chin, brought his face around toward herself, and put the next shot of the heel of her hand directly above his eyes.

He was still falling as she turned, stumbling back, arms free, flickering a gaze over the first and third assailants. The former was still on his back, and the third slumped forward, hands braced weakly at the pavement before falling to his face. She spun: _slide the cone._

A switch-blade clicked open behind her. As she'd hoped, the two other thugs had been over-whelmed by the instantaneousness of actual street violence and hadn't jumped in. It all lacked the choreography (and telegraphed moves) from TV, films, or high school jocks grudge-battling over a cheerleader. But now they were moving.

The one with the blade sent it toward her ribs, an uppercut heading where the kid supposed her heart would be. She side-slipped to her right, and as he automatically corrected, arm bending, knife moving toward her, her fist slammed onto it, sliding down to the nerves bundled in the bend of his elbow. The knife clattered away as she wheeled on her heel, bringing the bottom of her left palm against the bottom of his jaw, snapping his head back.

 _Damn it!_

She'd let his buddy wrap her up from behind, starting to lift her – but her instincts were afire. She went _with_ his motion, her feet kicking off the ground, regaining physical momentum. She could have even carried him in the air just a bit, but she curled her body upward, both knees slamming against his ears.

He staggered back – or tried to – as she flexed forward again, finding his arms loose enough, and with her powered arms strong enough, she jammed him away, spun, and seized the crown of his head. She caught herself before driving a knee into his nose and went for the non-lethal strike instead, whirling for an inelegant, simply right hook to his jaw that sent him down.

 _Glass chin._

"Seriously, Old Yeller," she panted, turning to face the 'Dog snatching up his knife. "You come at me with that thing again you'll be taking it out of your ass." She stepped back, but flexed her body, rolling her head. "You know that's how this ends, unless it ends now."

He dropped the knife.

She was dizzy, pulse pumping at her inner ears, stumbling, swirling, making sure no one else was coming at her, and only vaguely aware that her hoodie was down on her shoulders. It was the wide eyes of the teens and twenties around her that made her stop moving, stare back, and then freeze.

She heard her name being murmured, a weird hope surfing like a ray of light over their faces.

Voices tripped through phrases that tumbled together. "She's here … is that? … Jessica Jones, check it out … she came down …."

She walked over, picked up the knife and snapped it against the wall, tossing the handle against the fallen 'Dog's chest and spinning the blade up to a rooftop. She prowled toward him, lifting him by the collar with one hand, and swung him hard against the wall, just beneath Rebecca's MISSING poster.

"You and your 'Dogs get the _fuck_ out of Hell's Kitchen," she growled. She spun him to his knees.

"Jess-i-ca!" someone shouted, and it was answered like a call out in a Harlem church. "Jess-i-ca! Jess-i-ca!"

Her tunnel vision receding, her sense of _now_ returning, she stumbled back, shaking her head. Looking to where she'd thrown the blade, she jumped, landing roughly, grunting as she rolled over to all fours. She shoved to her feet and started to jump again.

She paused, listening to her name chanted in three triumphant syllables down on the street, over and over.

"Jess-i-ca! Jess-i-ca! Jess-i-ca! Jess-i-ca!"

"No," she whispered, shaking, eyes welling with tears. She turned, looked at a higher roof, and was gone.

* * *

"They don't understand the importance of the information," Lawson burred quietly into his phone. "All they know, they were on a surveillance of a suspect in a drug-related murder."

He glanced over at his father, sleeping with the TV's flicker playing over his face.

"No, I have no idea why the little bitch was at Jones' place." He rolled his palm over his face, then pulled up a file on the laptop sitting on the dinner tray setup in front of himself. "Who knows why these freaks do anything. They all know each other, it shouldn't be so surprising. But if anything, pencil her in as a volunteer - she did us a favor. She shows up, next thing you know, Jones physically assaulted peaceful protestors outside this damn freak club. Everything today makes Jones an even better mark. We don't need the street freaks-versus-Avengers angle now. I rebuilt Track B, accounting for this Mattie Franklin development. It sets up things up perfectly. I've tweaked the releases tonight on my laptop, both A and B track."

He listened, then sighed heavily. He closed the computer.

"No, because I can't send email on this. It's not wireless. If we had dial-up, it wouldn't work. It doesn't even have ports for thumb drives. I had it built that way for security." He rubbed his eyes. "Look, I'll be back in town tomorrow. We got the Heat in and weaponized. Have Haynes deploy it."

He punched out with a slight smile, cutting off a protest. Leaning back, he watched Mr. Feeny guiding Cory and Shawn toward the right answers simply by asking them questions. "Hey, pop?" he muttered. "Remember when it was all that easy?"


	8. Ep 8: AKA Another Shot of Whiskey

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 7: AKA Another Shot of Whiskey**

* * *

Jessica slowed, hearing Oscar's voice down the hallway saying, "Hey, lollipop."

She came around the corner, and found him grinning at the blind little girl, who was motioning for him to bend down. He leaned over, listening to her whisper, then nodded.

"Yeah," Oscar said. "He's with his mom for a few days, but I'll tell him first thing." She moved to hand him something, but he chuckled, folding her small hand over it. "No, no, lollipop, how about you give it to him, so he can thank you?" He looked up and tilted his chin to greet Jessica.

"Hey," she said. "Got a little friend with you?"

"She's my sweetheart," he winked. "Or maybe Vido's. She found that Captain America toy shield he lost."

Jessica mouthed, "How does she know?"

Oscar grinned and said aloud, "People got all kindsa abilities, isn't that right, Jess?"

The PI flushed, fidgeting on her feet, suddenly ashamed.

The girl herself fidgeted, sensing the newcomer, and whispered a rush of greetings and goodbyes before darting down the hall to the stairs. After she'd vanished, Jones turned back around. "So, how'd you get to be so good with kids?"

He shrugged. "Just looking out for her. Poor kid lost her family in that Sokovia thing, awhile back. She and her _abuela_ live here. Ever notice there's one window you can see from the street, light's always on?"

Jess nodded.

"Their's."

"Lot of old folk have trouble sleeping, I hear."

He shook his head. "It's not the grandma, it's the kid. Nightmares. PTSD and -" He caught himself, flushing slightly. "Sorry, I didn't mean …." He drifted off.

"It's okay," Jessica said. "You got any idea how many of us walk around with it?" She glanced back down the hallway. "Anyway, I may try to make it in early tonight. Like dinner time." She arched an eyebrow. "Standing invitation, right?"

"You don't have to ask," he chuckled. "See you then."

* * *

"Somebody's got a copy machine," Jessica muttered, making her way through the old church's halls. Breaking up the water spots and peeling paint, the Rebecca's "MISSING" posters were everywhere. The photocopies were made from a phone pic; edges of the brick wall surrounded the poster itself in the photo.

"Donated. Father Lantom, he's very active in partnership with the Alliance," Ruth Saenz, the woman walking her through the church said. "I'm so glad you're trying to find that girl. We were thrilled when one of the kids told us about the poster. Rebecca was only here a couple of nights, but she's such a sweet child, and when we saw your poster, of course we jumped on it," she said, taking her down to the basement, where clean cots lined the wall neatly. In the middle of the room, scattered singles and families sat eating sandwiches, chatting, faces worn as their threadbare clothing.

The ESMA volunteer took her over to an older woman who was rocking back and forth in a straight-back chair. "Amanda? This is Jessica Jones, the detective looking for Rebecca."

Amanda closed the Bible she was reading, beaming a smile up from a warm ebony face. "God bless you," she said. "We've all been so worried about that sweet baby."

Ruth had pulled two folding chairs near so the three could sit and talk. Amanda put Rebecca's arrival at the shelter as being within hours of the time Jessica knew she had cashed out her last paycheck. She'd stayed the night, gone out looking for work; come back for a second night, donated some of her money to cover meds for one of the children there, and then left, saying she was going to surprise a friend and look for an apartment.

Neither Amanda nor Ruth knew of anyone seeing Rebecca past the moment she opened the church's door upstairs and stepped out. Jess thought about the toughs she'd seen lounging outside when she'd arrived. Jessica wondered how far she'd gotten.

"Lot of creeps don't like having their prey protected," Jess noted. "Those guys outside ever give you any problems?"

Ruth grimaced. "It's why we had to spend money on a security camera," she sighed. "But one of the church members donated a recorder and he makes monthly donations, so we can keep the tapes."

"I didn't notice it coming in," Jessica said, kicking herself mentally.

"It's actually fairly well hidden."

Jessica arched an eyebrow. "And there are tapes?"

"Oh," Ruth waved her hand modestly. "Old old VHS type, yes."

"All the way back to when Rebecca vanished?"

Ruth nodded.

"The police have that, I assume?"

"Ms. Jones," Ruth said, genuinely puzzled, "you're the first person to talk to us since Rebecca vanished."

Seated, the six-hour tape taken from the day and time frame Rebecca had left, Jess took no more than ten minutes of sawing back and forth through the ancient clackity-clack of VHS Forward-Reverse before she spotted the car waiting down the street as Rebecca walked past. Then again, the vehicle stuck out in this neighborhood.

It was a black 2018 Lexus ES with "Take Back New York!" and "Keaton for Mayor" stickers.

* * *

Jessica Jones was remarkably skilled at blending in to the crowds, the shadows, the half-light regions, the soup that was the dark matter of New York City's universe.

It helped that she didn't _want_ to stand out. She was passionately committed to being a don't-give-a-fuck shadow in boxy normcore clothes with a hoodie to hide in. The duffle bag hanging off her shoulder was mostly empty – no tell-tale equipment if by some unfortunate chance it was checked over. It had another purpose today.

That this look worked for a PI on surveillance was beside the point existentially, but she wasn't in an existential reverie at the moment. At the moment, she _was_ on surveillance, focused as if she had laser eyes, hard set on the door of Lawson, Stiviano & Silver. She was praying to a God she'd long ago assumed didn't give a fuck about her. She had evidence for this, she would insist, like _so_ much evidence, seriously, like _all_ the evidence in the world that God didn't give a fuck about her. Yet she was praying to Him / Her / It / Neil Breen that the firm didn't have an underground garage.

And what the hell? God, or the devil or somebody answered, as she spotted a man matching news clips of David Lawson, walking through the front doors and sliding into a waiting cab. Only an hour and a half of waiting, using the time to pull up the photo of Jessica Drew's business card, note the number, and put it in her phone, then simply think through the case. She'd been ready to spend a couple of days for this opportunity.

She gave it a few beats and then she made her way across the street, slipping through the door. She yanked the hoodie down, her face made up with a precision and indulgence unusual for her. Smiling brightly, she took her voice up at least a half octave, and greeted a receptionist, picking the older, more auntish of the six available to work her lost girl act on.

"Hi! This is Lawson, Stiv', right?" she asked, using the slang for the firm she'd picked up after quizzing a puzzled Foggy Nelson about it intensely.

The woman nodded, her smile cautious.

Jess looked around. "Yeah, there's a meeting? I guess?" She giggled. Growing up with an actress step-sis had helped her out in her own chosen profession.

She rambled on. "A lot of them, I know, I'm sorry, this is for –" she slung the duffle around in front of herself, zipped up halfway open, and pulled out a note. "David Lawson. He needs it for some, um, meeting?" She looked up, biting her lip. "I'm running about ten minutes behind, I hope there's still time?"

"Well …" the receptionist frowned. "Actually, Mr. Lawson just left."

"Holy shit." Jessica's lower lip trembled. "Oh, God, I am so fired. They said get it to him on time. And I can't even text him or anything, they said he explicitly told them not to, or call him, or ... any interruption but just hand him the –"

"What is it, anyway?"

"Dunno," Jess looked into it, plowing through the bound transcripts she'd "borrowed" from Nelson's office on her way out. "Depos, I guess. Yeah, depositions. I guess he needs them for this meeting, to review or to confront the other side." She looked at her watch. "Oh my God! They emphasized I had to get this to him right on time. I'm gonna get fired." She glanced over her shoulder as if someone might be approaching with a pink slip right then.

The receptionist had been typing while Jessica talked, and looked up from her screen now. "It's okay, hun. The meeting is just ten minutes away if you catch a cab. I've got the address here."

* * *

Trish sat steaming through the morning show's impromptu debate, staring at her television. Reverend Chris Hoskins was raging about homicides by "this Hellcat" outside The Excelsior, and its implications for New York's security as more inhumans surfaced through terrigenesis while a new "Spider-Woman" was slinging through Hell's Kitchen and nearby neighborhoods.

Diane Cummings, one of a dozen frenemies from their days as child actors, had ripped a page from Trish's own book by turning her blonde good looks and glib improv skills into a new career. She'd been more successful, but then Trish had burned her own career down willfully.

Now, Cummings sat back with a plastic smile, eyes gleaming serpentine green, letting Chris Hoskins tie the emergence of "these so-called new humans" to "a rise in crime, of homosexuality, of drug legalization" – and a half dozen other things he saw destroying America.

Foggy Nelson's strategy had been to let the good reverend rant and focus his attention on Steven Keaton. Nelson had been described as "a criminal defense attorney" who had "ties to the powered community," the first a go-to for killing credibility with the daytime demographic, and the second sneered out in the same way mob attorneys were described.

Nonetheless, Foggy was fighting hard, as always when tossed into the ring, despite the Cummings' subtle slant and the force of the opposition she'd gathered around the table. They were gradually pinning him down as a benighted civil libertarian refusing "to face facts and do what needs done."

But Keaton was winning. Maybe not on points, but on image, and this was television – Trish knew what mattered. The clean-cut, square-jawed assistant district attorney's every inch and merest gesture enshrined him as THE rising mayoral candidate.

He had plenty of help maintaining (or really - Trish's media savvy mind noted –- shifting) the "vital middle" of the debate. While he urged "waiting for the full story" on The Excelsior killings, and "maintaining calm and avoiding violence," he nodded with grave sympathy as Reverend Hoskins railed against the baleful influence of "these so-called superhumans", running through the history of Hydra and the failures of S.H.I.E.L.D..

Farther afield still was a Phineas Faithful Dominion spokesman who disavowed the Watchdog violence in stylized legalese while describing the "plague on our city and our nation and our world" in ways that offered no other solution. Keaton took on an active mediative form through several minutes of that discussion, again positioning himself as the voice of reason, offering the remarkable observation that violence "can often get out of hand."

"Vote for me or these assholes will hurt everyone," Trish muttered, summarizing the strategy.

"I'm told this new 'spider,' the girl, is working with the Avengers to try and broker a peaceful solution between the street powered, the patriotic movement, and proper authorities," Keaton tossed in, with a rueful smile. "But I have to say people like this Jessica Jones, with her temper and history of violence, make it hard to keep the peace."

Trish frowned, puzzled by the entire statement. Foggy started to protest, but it wasn't in the script Trish could see in the host's head. This had been a cue for Exhibit "A", described in a runner on the screen as "Victim of Powered Violence" – Pryce Cheng.

The host obligingly turned to him. "And I understand, Mr. Cheng, you have good reason to know about the violence of these people? Jessica Jones being a prime example?"

He nodded sagely. "Jessica Jones threw me through a sheet of glass. I'm still not entirely recovered. Doctors are amazed at how well I've done, but they're not sure if I'll ever fully recover."

"Why did she do that?" Foggy asked quietly.

Cheng spread his hands. "It's obvious. I'm a competitor, and my business was killing hers. She couldn't step up in our market, so she tried to eliminate the competition by playing the aggrieved victim and using her fists."

"The only person she's ever eliminated was out to kill over a dozen New Yorkers when she stopped him," Foggy replied. "And as for _your_ little incident, who was the aggressor? Isn't it a fact that you had been taunting her –"

"Oh, come on, Nelson."

"— _taunting_ her about horrible traumas she has been through?"

"Wrong. Absolutely false. Are we really going to let this _lawyer_ , a criminal defense shill, sit here and impugn a veteran and police consultant by turning this episode into fake news?" He turned back to Foggy. "She pled guilty! Only got probation, because of a weak justice system, but if she wasn't guilty, counselor, why'd you plead her guilty?"

"I didn't represent her," Nelson fired back. "If I had, I would also have raised the fact you began the physical fight by sticking an electro-shock stunner against her stomach. She reacted in self-defense. If I had handled the case, there'd have been no guilty plea. And I believe no conviction at all. Well, not for her."

"That's enough with the alternative facts," Cheng spat out, taking off microphone clipped to his lapel. "We're done here." He stood and stormed out.

Trish snapped the TV off and tossed the remote down on her breakfast bar.

* * *

"I'm still waiting for the explosion," the voice on the phone told him.

"Mr. Lukin," Lawson began.

"Please. I've told you – Aleksander." The Russian had lived in the U.S. for decades, his accent was flawlessly mid-Atlantic. "I think we've become friends in the course of this project, haven't we?" The smile faded. "But this – Ms. Jones? I was told she was such a volatile fluid, she should have blown up a few sparks ago. And I've been told that when something needs done, you're the best. It's why my associates and I put so much money into your little scheme."

Lawson ran his palm over his face. "I assure you, she's close. She's got massive PTSD. All we have to do is keep squeezing her –"

"How long?" Lukin sighed. "My friends and I owe much to this country, we want to make it a better place. All it once was."

"Well," Lawson answered dryly. "The mayoral election itself is sometime off yet. Long way to go before we can put Mr. Keaton where we really want him."

"Federal authorities picked up our salesman," Lukin said. "Do you know anything about that?"

Stunned, Lawson almost stuttered, before correcting his course and saying, "Looking into it.

"I believe you. But as for this nasty Jones woman? We need her to go off sooner rather than later. And have it done right. The funding boost from the 'common folk' will then sustain Keaton's rise. Our sources can fade back quietly. But if we have to carry him much longer, people will notice us, and that's not … optimal."

"I understand."

"So, make it work fast. Beyond that –" Lawson could almost hear the shrug "—I don't give a damn about all these powereds and Nephilim and mutants and –" he started laughing. "My God, this is purely about power. This country has lost its mind – usefully – but let's not lose ours, Mr. Lawson. Sometimes I fear you're a true believer."

It was odd – the man's American accent was flawless, his finances were deeply rooted in American soil, and it was often hard to remember he didn't think of himself as one.

"I know how to push Jones' buttons," Lawson murmured. "I have experience with PTSD. From my work with the Incident First Responders Fund."

"And your father."

"Leave him out of this," Lawson practically growled, causing Lukin to laugh.

"Ah, now I respect you, Mr. Lawson. Family is sacrosanct. Let others suffer in their place. See, that I can understand. This Jones has no family anymore. She's a failed experiment. And a drunk and a whore."

Still in that place in his head where he was defending his father, Lawson responded defensively toward Jessica, weird as it sounded to his own ears. "Risky and self-destructive behaviors are part and parcel to PTSD."

Lukin ignored him with a voice that was iced silk. "I've enjoyed our game. Toying with her. Just be sure that when this bitch destroys herself, it's with public shame. That is the top priority. Then our boy becomes mayor and rides the tide higher."

"Well, technically," Lawson interjected, making certain to justify the money outlay, "she's not destroying herself, we're destroying her."

"Same thing," Lukin said, and his puzzlement suggested he genuinely believed this.

"So, I can give the word," Lawson replied, "and short-circuit this to a quick default. But that scenario tacitly lionizes the Avengers as the 'sane' alternative to the Jones-Cage-Iron Fist crowd. The agreed scenario had her attacking Stark openly – discrediting the entire powered set, showing them to be in chaos."

"Perfectly acceptable to live them in place for now," Lukin replied. "Stark, Romanov, this arrow marksman, they aren't even powered. And we have always intended that Stark's lot be handled farther on down the road. Right now, we pick off the street freaks. Like this bitch. Then we can move up the chain."

Lawson sighed. "Then we switch gears on a dime. I've got everything in place to make it happen now. The 'evidence' is ready to support it just as well as it would have supported the longer game of Jones versus Stark."

"Very good." Lukin hung up, just like that.

The attorney stood, gripping the strap of his computer bag, feeling the comforting weight of the laptop inside. He'd make his notes when he got back to his office. He stepped out of the spacious maintenance closet and locked the door behind him.

Lukin was miles away and had likely never been in this building in his life. The dozens of other businesses had no tie to him. The entire point of conducting the conversation here was to misdirect any attention to them.

Once in the surf of background buzz on the first floor, Lawson pulled his cell phone out and punched in a number. "We're done. And I've got to move on something fast. You nearby?" He glanced at his watch. "Yeah, five minutes is fine."

He hung up, then sent a text that read simply: "PLAN B. NOW".

He waited, watching the eyes of those who went past outside the glass walls, until a text fro his ride flashed on his screen.

Striding onto the sidewalk, still looking at the eyes of by-passers, he barely noticed the slender brunette who bumped into him, slamming his laptop's outline clear in the carry bag before muttering an apology with hardly a break in her stride. He couldn't see her eyes. She was wearing knock-off aviator shades.

* * *

 _Fucker almost panicked, grabbing that computer bag so hard,_ Jessica thought. Making a note of his protectiveness about the laptop, she slid around the edge of the building, gave it two beats, and doubled back, head tilted down at her phone while she kept her eyes in their corners set on Lawson..

 _Brief meeting._ She chewed the inside of her cheek, dreading the process of dredging through every name in the building's directory that night to see if anything – she frowned.

"Hello, again," she said, watching Lawson get into a car.

A black 2018 Lexus ES, New York plates – a number she'd run before. "Take Back New York!" and "Keaton for Mayor" stickers.

Plenty of room for boxes of flyers and black money cash bags.

She stuffed her gloves into her pockets, then yanked her cell out, firing up the app connected to the tracer she'd just left in his outer jacket pocket. But she only got in a few moments of live tracking when a phone buzz-rattled in her palm.

She read the text message from Smithie, looked up frowning, and then read it again. She shrugged, punched in a quick reply, and sighed. "This better be good."

* * *

Costa slid into the chair opposite Dinah Madani and went straight to the point. "Hear you got Orlov."

Dinah set her pen down, easing back in her chair. "And hello to you, too, Eddy. To be more accurate, the Raft has Orlov."

"And that's why the weapons sales suddenly dried up."

"Presumably." Agent Madani shrugged. "The shooting will go on for a while with the pieces out there, but the ammo will dry up."

"You got the son-of-a-bitch and you didn't feel like mentioning it to me? Damn it, Dinah, this is why we locals hate working with the Feds. What we know, you know. What you know, you might tell us someday. Maybe. If we ask nice."

"Would it have affected anything? At all? For you to know?" Not waiting for an answer, Dinah leaned forward. She shook her dark curls, rubbing her eyes, which were sunken from lack of sleep. "Look, we got a tip about a meeting he had, turned it over to the right people. It was confirmed after a drill down in the recent backlog of surveillance and he was met at the location. More than that I don't really know –"

"Tip from who?"

"What does it matter? The super-weapons store is closed now."

"It matters a lot and you know it," Eddy bristled. "It matters because plenty got sold already. They're on the streets. And we agreed the focus on Hell's Kitchen doesn't make sense, meaning something else is going on, and until we figure that out, we don't know what's going to fall out of the sky next."

Madani looked away. "Fair enough. You're saying who gave the tip would be a clue as to what's still going on. But the problem, and I'm sorry, but –"

"What kind of recorded surveillance confirmed the tip?"

"Can't say. It's -"

"Classified. Just like the tip. I got a Top Secret clearance with this Task Force job, and you still can't tell me?"

"This is SCI."

Costa stared at her, then coughed. "AT&T runs a 'backbone facility' for the NSA right here in Manhattan."

"Over on 10th Avenue. Yeah, we all know. So?"

"So I'm wondering if this thing is high priority enough they've tasked NSA to support us. Maybe just passive read-and-select only, but interesting stuff now and then."

Madani rubbed her forehead, eyes closed. "Eddy, I told you, this is classified. It's all SCI."

"Don't give me that, Dinah, if it's secure compartmented information my TS clearance can still …. Wait." Costa's rolls had slowed to a stop. "I'm out of the loop because of _who_ gave the tip. It's blocked by my SSBI. So it wasn't the backbone facility. It was a person." He leaned back, eyes amused, as the wheels turned in her head.

"I never said that," Madani smiled.

"So, something in my Single Scope Background profile means you can't tell me who our tipster was?"

"You might think that." Madani shrugged. "I couldn't say."

He grinned. "Feds still don't like my being soft of Jones?"

"I didn't say it was Jessica Jones."

Costa started to ask one more question, but thought better of it, and simply stood, smiling at her. "Yeah," he winked. "You didn't give me a single clue. Don't worry, I won't be the one asking her. But if she knew this, maybe she knows more."

Dinah shrugged, smiling.

* * *

Jessica moved carefully, her step feline and reserved, staring up at the two covered second story walkways that spanned 9th Avenue just past the corner with West 40th. _Nice way to see me coming._

She felt every step. Usually taking in alcohol in bulk had little lasting effect on her fast healing body, but her numbing routine was now blended together with a lack of sleep over the past several days. Information had been coming at her from wildly different angles on a mix of crazy cases.

In the back of her haze, she suddenly saw herself getting up earlier that A.M., tapping at the computer, before going back in and collapsing. She remembered being angry. But it was hard for her to separate out all the things making her angry right now and she could focus on what it was this time. She shrugged and kept moving.

After Smithie's text, Jess had gotten one from Foggy Nelson that had at least alerted her to why this meeting might be happening, but it didn't make her any less uneasy. Apparently, Mattie was now the go-between working things out with the street powered and the Watchdogs with the mighty Avengers the voice of all-mighty reason.

She'd liked Mattie, but the idea the girl might have been playing the other kids at the Excelsior – _on behalf of Tony Fucking Stark_ – didn't sit well.

Stopping outside the bowling alley on the corner, she waited, hands kept ready, open, loose at her sides. She turned now and again, pretending to be interested in various interactions within the milling crowd, but in fact using them as an excuse to look for whoever might stick out.

Still, the girl she had come to meet made it to her side without Jess noticing until she was right there.

"Jesus, you're light on your feet," Jessica exhaled, scanning Mattie warily. "So, what's this about?"

"I didn't call this meeting." Mattie replied. "Your assistant did." She held up her cell, pulling up the text and tapping the screen. "Smithie. She said, apparently, it was Stark meeting us?"

"Wait – this is with Stark? Seriously?" Jess jammed her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. "I mean, I have a meeting set with him, but not here, and not now."

"Well," Mattie said, dancing a bit on the balls of her feet. "This thing, whatever it is, Smithie's text said they want us in the garage." They turned and went several paces down 40thStreet, walking into the indoor multi-story car park next to the bowling alley. "Just by parking spot A-15."

Jessica frowned. "Okay, so, Stark – Tony Stark – wants us to meet at a specific parking spot in a garage next to a bowling alley?"

"It's what Smithie's text said."

"Did you set this up with Stark, or Smithie?"

"I've never even met Tony Stark." Mattie glanced at her, and for the first time Jess saw the girl look uncertain – like a kid, again.

Jones' head was spinning. They stalked deeper into the shadows, Jess keeping her voice light when she asked, "So, this isn't about you brokering some sort deal for street peace?"

"What?" Mattie frowned, voice notched up toward a shout as she stared at her. "What brokering? What deal? What the hell is going on?"

They stopped by the empty A-15 slot. Several slots on either side were blocked off with orange cones. "On the news today, they –" Jess glanced up at the red light flashing above a video security camera, staring down from just over the A-15. "They were saying …."

Mattie blinked and gestured: _go on._

"Fuck!" Jessica turned. "Smithie sent these texts."

"Yeah. So?"

"I mean, her _phone_ sent these texts. Goddamn it, I'm an idiot."

"Jessica Jones?"

She whirled, looking up the ramp to where the voice originated. "Yeah?"

"Just you for a minute. Then your spidery friend. Tell Ms. Franklin to stay right there."

She shifted her weight, then motioned for Mattie to wait. She had no doubt who-ever this was had exits covered. She needed to play this out a bit, figure it out better, and then get herself and Mattie out of there.

"Hang on," she muttered.

She was walking within near infinite care up the ramp, eyes sliding back and forth, when something stung her neck. An engine fired, echoes like thunder in the garage.

Whirling once, glaring everywhere, Mattie made two fists, chin jutted, but when she turned back to Jess, her eyes were wide and impossibly young. "Ms. Jones?"

Slapping instinctively had only driven the tiny prong in her neck deeper. Jones stumbled, shouting at the girl to run, but her voice was drowned out by the squeal of tires from a white van peeling away from full stop and barreling around the corner. Someone helpfully flung a door out, smacking Jessica back hard as the van passed.

Head smacking the concrete, Jess' vision was blurred when she finally stopping rolling long enough to see Mattie running toward her with hands bladed and eye aflame. The van squirreled to a quick near-stop, the girl's body dancing unnaturally as if peppered with stings similar to whatever had his Jones. Five large men who must surely have taken up fully two-thirds of the inside of the van sprang out, grabbing her, pulling her inside.

One of the men turned, grinning at the sight of Jessica on the ground, bruised, and bleeding. The man was gigantic, with a Deputy Sheriff's handlebar mustache, but only one eye. One-Eye McCoy reached to a holstered gun, but a hand from inside the van grabbed his collar and yanked him over.

"Orders are leave her alive," a voice growled. "Get your ass in here."

Jess shoved to her hands, then pushed herself up, but her head was spinning badly. She stumbled forward, then hit her knees as she heard tires screaming again. Rubber burned acrid in the garage, the smoke curling toward her, and Jess thought: _Good choice, white van – blends in, most common color for a van …._ just before she passed out.

* * *

"Nothing's happened yet," Keaton mused, rubbing his jaw, scanning the paper. "If I'm committing comments to memory, it should be for something that's happening. no?"

Lawson had his head down, smiling at the number code that flashed over his phone screen.

ADA Keaton lived in a world where cell phones buzzed constantly and didn't seem to have noticed. He was still engrossed, reading.

"We've got to stay ahead of this other thing," Lawson said. "I think things are moving fast, per my sources out there. Days. Hell, could be just hours, before something blows up big."

Keaton looked up finally, an easy grin on his face. "Your sources are better than mine? Is there something going on here I want to know about?"

"Yeah, your poll numbers went up for the fifth straight week. Leave the details to me."

"Fair enough," Keaton shrugged. "Cops say it's all pretty static out there, apart from five Watchdogs jumping this Jones character –"

Lawson held up his hand with a pained expression on his face, causing his client to roll his eyes.

"Sorry," Keaton said. "Apart from this 'powered PI' attacking peaceful protestors. I mean, the gangs are making pretty steady use of those freak-ass weapons they've gotten hold of somehow, but nobody who's anybody cares about any of the nobodies they've put on a slab. Wrong color or wrong address or both, nothing the press runs with."

Lawson leaned forward. "People hire me – you hired me – not just because I'm one of the best lawyers in New York, but because of my instincts." The candidate nodded, granting him the point. Lawson had learned long ago to use 'instincts' as code for 'street smarts.' Keaton was Groton to Harvard; School 29 to NYU had been Lawson's route. And the latter learned years earlier how to use that to his advantage with his social "betters".

"Right now," he told Keaton, "my instincts tell me no later than the next couple days, something blows up – something we can take advantage of."

Now Keaton held up his hand. "You mean use to illustrate what we've correctly been warning people about."

"Emphasize, not illustrate."

Keaton grinned. "Emphasize."

They went over the bullet-points, making sure the candidate would be ready with a gripping "spontaneous" reaction for anything that hit the press related to the "dangerous situation between these street-level groups of powered kids and our concerned citizens who – I ask again – must leave this to authorities."

Keaton frowned, tapping at one bullet point. "This Franklin girl, she's kinda young to be taking on such responsibility. Nineteen? Twenty? And I heard from down the hall that Tony Stark just denied he's even in discussion with her on this – or anything else."

He shrugged. "But then he would say that, wouldn't he? He's a bit like us, trying to keep matches away from the powder keg. He's gotta run silent and deep. Anybody asks, just say that without saying it. You know the drill."

Keaton leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and improv'ed a rehearsal. "I can't speak for Mr. Stark, of course. But I do know how delicate negotiations have to be on matters like this. I think there are good people on all sides of this thing and I sincerely hope they can work it out." His chin dipped back down and his eyes filled with strength and concern. "My job as a prosecutor is to protect New Yorkers in the meantime, and as mayor, it'll be my job to keep them protected."

"Damn it," Lawson looked at his buzzing phone. "I gotta take this." He stood, slinging his computer bag over his shoulder. "One moment," he said into the phone.

Keaton waved him out, dropping the paper on his desk, and picking up a file.

In the hallway, the attorney smiled. "Have your gal at the station push the envelope on the Jones video," he snapped. "Tell her we'll keep feeding her an exclusive as this develops, and she's got no worry about blowback from Jones. That little bitch is finally done."

* * *

Sonny stared at her when she walked in and kept staring at her. Jessica spared him a couple of sullen glances, wondering if there were spots of blood on the back of her head she'd missed when washing up in the 42nd Street bus terminal restroom, but otherwise just got a couple of bottles of Four Roses.

She'd stumbled out of the garage into total normalcy but thinking about as clearly as if mostly asleep. In the haze from the hard floor shot to the head, she had thought only about making it back to safety, back to her little hovel on West 46th, and it wasn't until she'd been going past Sonny's on the way that it hit her she needed to call somebody. Like: cops. _Cop somebodies_.

 _No, wait._

She'd thought that in the garage.

It came back to her.

She'd made her way up, stumbled back, lurched forward, ears ringing. All she saw running past her were blurs. _Call 911._ Fumbled her phone, saw it hit the concrete. She didn't hear a thing, the ringing echoing now in her head. She crouched, unsteady, pulling the phone up and punching 911. Held it to her ears … but no one answered.

"Fuck happen to merging-she ser'vush," she muttered. Still nothing.

She shoved to her feet and stumbled down the way, onto the sidewalk, into a hellish glare of sun. Light – light everywhere, cold, and harsh, and stabbing her eyes. People came in and out of the glare like birds in the fog, went past her, staring, eyes too big, mouths moving now and then. No sound.

She grabbed hold of someone who shoved her back, his eyes staring at her head. His eyes changed to concern, and he leaned over, his mouth moving. Jessica felt blood in her hair, a wound on the back of her head.

 _Have him to call 911 and – what? Tell 'em Tony Stark just kidnapped the new Spider-Woman in a garage by a bowling alley? Fuck my life._

A white van rolled out of the soup of light. She turned and ran, hands bladed, fighting her urge to jump, to take a roof and hide. In her weird head-haze of pure feeling without connecting thoughts, she was convinced she was fading into the crowd by just running. Jumping? Jumping was out of the question.

Breeze, then voices, became real again. She stopped, palm against the side of a building, catching her breath.

 _How do you find a spider-woman?_ she thought. She pulled up the number for Jessica Drew that Mattie had given her. Punched it. No answer. Jess left a message.

"Lady? Hey, you okay?"

She looked up at an Arab man, staring at her with concern. "You're hurt, let me help you. What happened?"

She flinched, and his hand stopped short of touching her. He pulled back.

"I don't know," she said. "Something – I don't remember."

"Come on, ma'am," he said gently, "let's get you inside." He motioned toward the storefront with "Ali's Kabob" above it. "I'll call for an ambulance."

A white van rolled past.

She ran. She banged off walls, tripped and rolled, but kept running.

She ran until she remembered, and that was a couple blocks from Sonny's. A quick stop and she'd be home right after, she had decided, hand on the door of the shop. She'd take it from there.

"Okay, asshole, problem, here, that's – we got," she said now, "a problem?"

She didn't like it that her voice was slurred and her words jumbled. She hadn't had a drop all day. _Well … not that much, anyway. Damn it, I may need to call my "night nurse" in Harlem._

"Nothing, Ms. Jones," Sonny said. His voice was fearfully subdued. She almost spat a "what?" at him but settled for paying and stomping on out of the store.

She dialed that number again, swaying as she made her way to her building and snapped out her message of record, "Drew. Jessessess .. ca. Jones. Hell's Kishun. Assholes took Mat … Mattie. Frank-ling. Number on your screen, bitch, call me. Any help be appreciate. Ted."

 _Work._

She fought back anxiety by making herself bear down mentally so hard she was puzzled why she was just sitting her desk, feeling – hungover? Beat up?

 _Hair of the dog._

Wasn't there something she needed to do?

She yanked up a short flat bottle of something brown – couldn't make out the name – and took two long soothing swallows. _Yeah … something, but …_

She pulled up a browser screen on her laptop and had an alcoholic's shock of memory. She'd gotten up, been working a bit around 4:30 that morning. She'd pulled up TinEye and run screen caps of Samuel Cross' face in the video she took surreptiously the day they met.

And now there it was: Match 125 out of only 187 (the guy seemed to avoid cameras for a man of wealth). A gala event, some damn rich boy's club. Samuel Cross standing in a tuxedo with assorted swells and smiling at the camera. Standing, in fact, right next to Tony Stark.

She pressed her palms over her eyes. She was forgetting something. Something important. She shoved to her feet, stumbling to her kitchenette.

Then she was back in her chair, five more quick gulps down, stomach flaring with warmth from the booze, ice chill in a zip-lock pressed against the back of her head, when she looked up at the knock on her door and recognized the big, blocky silhouette through the frosted glass.

 _Oscar._

She sat up straight, slinging the baggie of ice into her trash can, and fussed with her hair – to cover any wound, she swore to herself, not because she gave a damn how she looked. "It's open," she said.

He slipped in as she ran her palm over her face quickly, wondering what he saw, and if he happened to know what she was forgetting just now.

 _Shit! Mattie!_ She bolted upright.

"You okay?" he asked, guardedly.

She gestured, fumbling through her jacket for her phone as he sat. "Bad happened," she said. "Need to file."

He made a hissing sound of alarm and sprang over to her. "Jess?"

"What?" she looked down at her fingers, coated with blood. The back of her hair felt sticky.

Oscar reached to her, hesitating with his finger at her chin until her wide eyes indicated he could touch her. He turned her head slowly, looking behind her. "Jess … who did this to you?"

"Di'what? Pffft. Bump 'onna head," she mumbled. "Just need," she looked around, then spotted her flask sitting right in front of her. "Here. 'Nother shotta whiskey."

"You're not talking right. We gotta get you to a doctor now. You know you're all over the news, right?"

"Yesterday. I saw."

"Today. Like, the past hour."

She shook her head, wincing, then shoved the lid up on her laptop. It felt heavy as a truck. She typed, badly, but managed to get her browser up and the alert tickler running. The light off the screen threw knives through her eyeballs. She wiped sweat off her forehead.

Articles. Lots of articles. All thrown down in the past hour.

All linking to security video released exclusively by Diane Cummings on WFRT. The video showed Jessica talking to Mattie Franklin in the parking garage, then walking away, after which things happened fast: a flash of a van pulling up; Mattie swarmed, gamely struggling but losing the fight; the van ripping out of sight.

Cummings was in full fulmination: "Now, the woman walking away just before this girl is abducted has been identified as Jessica Jones, who police tell me is already a suspect in the shooting death of a rumored drug dealer said to be affiliated with the Hell's Kitchen powered community surrounding The Excelsior nightclub. And just in, this WFRT exclusive, video shot outside Jessica Jones' office recently where she clearly assaulted this same young woman, Mattie Franklin -"

Jess snapped the lid back down and saw Oscar's huge brown eyes staring at her. Not a hint of accusation – just concern.

"Suspect, rumored, said to be ... anybody ver'fy things these days?" she asked him.

"I know, I know. Just tell me what you need right now, okay?" He leaned forward. "I'm sorry about that girl, by the way – did you know her?"

"Do," Jess said. "I do know her. Not dead. Somebody jussss … took her." The last sentence caused the PI's gut to seize up, and she folded physically around herself, hugging her own arms.

 _Weeeeell,_ the Englishman's voice drawled _, taking, now that's really more my thing, isn't it, Jess? Not that I want to – always – but naughty little stupid girls make me so I'll teach them what they really feel. Ah, but the dying? It's the dying – the dying all around you – that's yours._

She squeezed her eyes tight, riding anger, trying to drive the blue out and see only red, feeling her lips mumble. She mumbled like an acolyte in prayer, the words unheard, the feelings soaking in. But Oscar heard the words.

"Okay," Oscar finally said, "so - Birch Street? Higgins Drive? Cobalt Lane? Is that – you think they took her one of those places?" Oscar said.

She looked over at his chair and he wasn't in it. Just then, he touched her shoulder, and she jumped back away.

"I'm sorry," he said, retreating.

"Higgins Drive. He'd take her. Higgins Drive."

"Who? Who'd take her?"

Jessica lifted a crooked forefinger, pointing at a man in an immaculate suit, purple shirt, darker purple skinny tie. He smiled at her, a syrup of violet swirling slowly around him. Her hand began shaking and tears filled her eyes.

Oscar followed her aim, looking at the door. "Jess, there's nobody there."

As he turned toward her, she snapped her gaze to him, eyes wide, and shoved her chair away. "He's there, goddamn it! He's never gone!"

Her vision went from red to purple and screaming filled her head. Jessica Before. The same screaming that filled her head for months while she kept that stupid girl smile on her face for Kilgrave so he wouldn't choose to hurt her, or rather hurt her worse.

"The girl on the news, I know it's not your fault, but do you know where she is? They need to find her before … well. Soon."

"I'didna … I'dda never let another girl get taken like that, I …" she started to stand, then fell back in her chair, vision blurring. "Never never never …."

"Sssssh, I know. I know that. Let's get you taken care of."

She stayed in that fog, weirdly calm while listening to Oscar on his cell phone saying, "Oh, Ms. Walker, thank God. This is Oscar, Oscar Arocho. Oh, you remember me? Yeah, yeah, it is. She's in bad shape."

 _Trish? He has_ her _number?_

Jess' head drifted through violet fog, and she pushed through to something pure white.

"Got it," Oscar was saying. "All right, we'll wait." Jessica was slumping deep in her chair when his hands took her shoulders, setting her gently upright as he murmured, "You gotta stay with me. That nurse is on her way. Trish will make sure."

"Fuck you got that bishe's number for?" Jessica slurred. He was holding her head up, rubbing her eyebrows with his thumb.

"While back, she gave it to me so I could be ready if something like this happened," he told her. "Whatever happened between you two, I figured she'd know things like – this. The nurse's number."

Jess let her mind fold a bit further into a haze, while he fought gently to keep her body awake.

* * *

[Transcript]

Male #1: CenCom Purple, this is Hotel Charlie Sierra team. Be advised, Nightingale just entered her building.

Female #1: Copy that, Harlem. Mike Charlie Sierra Team, you are detailed. Team confirm.

[Static]

Female #2: CenCom Purple, Mike Charlie Sierra, 10-4 and mobile en route, six minute ETA Harlem.

Female #1: Copy that. All teams, 10-3.

[Silence eight seconds. Run-time ends.]

* * *

Lawson had expected to hear from Sylvania Packard and rattle off praise for the way she'd weaponized Diane Cummings and her news platform. He frowned at the surprise of an upstate number before picking up the call, simply saying, "Yes?"

He sat, a line of sweat forming on his forehead, eyes going from dull to frantic to fixed concern as listened.

"Who found him?"

The nurse on the other end sighed. "Someone, a … Sister Margaret? Apparently, she checks on him every day. Honestly, sir – and again, he's fine now, he's resting, he's in good hands in a private room here – but if she didn't know CPR, if she hadn't found him when she did …."

"So, Sister Maggie saved his life."

The nurse hesitated, then said very frankly. "Yes, sir, she did."

"All right," he said, rubbing his eyes with a thumb. "I'll be right up. Be sure he has anything – _anything_ – he needs or wants." He punched out of the call, rapping his fingers on the desk. Standing, he pushed the intercom button and told his secretary he'd be out on a family matter. "Find Sylvie, tell her to wait for my call, I'll need her to cover some things."

Slinging the computer bag over his shoulder, he punched in a number into the cell phone as he left the room in a hurry.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, the pusher – Haynes – pull him off the cat and get him to the safe house with the spider freak. Yeah, forgot the Soo kid. We're not using the cat anymore, we'll tag the spider." He nodded once. "Thanks, Gunny."

* * *

Jessica woke up abruptly with a shudder.

She shoved herself up on her knuckles, looking around the bedroom. Someone had left a night light glowing. Her gaze ran over the entire room, noting a pile of yellow tee-shirts in one corner and a _hanbo_ set on the wall. A jumble of images in her head wrestled for attention in between flashes in her head as her mind seemed to reset itself.

Oscar, locking her apartment while Jess huddled against the wall outside, until he turned and unfolded a blanket.

Oscar bundling her in it, getting her downstairs and into a cab. She had curled up against him. A brief tumble of normalcy caused her to joke as way to hang onto it, muttering, "You're still not my boyfriend, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled. He wrapped her with an arm over the blanket, talking to her, but most of what she remembered was his tone, not his words. Smooth, calm, strong. A few words. "You'll be okay. I'm here, not going to let anything happen to you. Your friends are waiting for us."

She had drifted.

 _Flash._

Claire had fussed over her with that same smooth professionalism Jessica had admired ever since they met while standing over Luke's unconscious body in an ER.

Luke.

Luke was pacing, puffing, angry – angrier than she'd ever seen him, enough that Claire seemed uneasy.

Vibes. Bad vibes. Something not right there, with those two ….

Another woman's voice, out of sight, murmuring.

Claire chuckling, though still sounding worried. "It's a surface wound, Colleen, and the thing is with Jessica, she heals damn fast. Big concern is infection. Best thing is clean the wound, watch it, but yeah, I'll stitch it if it doesn't close up pretty quick."

 _Flash._

Foggy Nelson looking at her, talking to her. "A month. Can't go into it but give me a month, we'll reverse this fast."

Her staring back.

His words tumble out of the fog hazed all around her vision, tunneling down to the business card in his hand. "Handled." Business card. "Show 'em the card." Business card. Pressure in her hand? Oh – business card.

His name on one side, on the back a bunch of letters blurred in her eyes while he explained them. "…. an unequivocal invocation of your Miranda rights, don't buy their bullshit, just slap that at them … no warrant yet …. They show up, hand them the card. Jess … repeat it, okay, stay out of fights right now. The cops stop you? Hands in the air. They ask you a damn thing? You show them the card, back of the card."

 _Flash._

She was wearing a towel. Just a towel. She was seated on a wooden stool in a small bathroom. Someone was cleaning the blood off her scrapes and scratches, elbows and knees and lots of places in between, with water and soap on a rag. Jessica's hair was wet, draping her face, and smelled of strawberry shampoo.

Jess raised her head. An Asian woman built as small as Jessica, and not as strong of course, but very – _very_ – sure of herself with a trained economy of movement, was washing her wounds with soap, just to be sure about the wounds specifically, Jess supposed, since generally her entire body felt moistly showered. _I know her. Cobalt? Cobalt Wing? Lane. Ling. Wait – Wing, Colleen Wing._

"What kind of drugs?" Colleen was saying, and just then Jess's body jerked.

"Easy, hun," Claire murmured, then applied the antiseptic alcohol a tad more gently with her own rag. She was following Colleen's touch, it was all Collen-soap-rinse-dry / Claire sting. "Don't know, something that knocked her out, and then that plus the knock on the head when she hit the pavement …."

 _Flash._

Tee-shirt and jeans on, everything back on underneath. Bathroom door opening. Colleen, Claire, pulling her to her feet, calling for Oscar, for Luke.

Oscar and Luke went to each side of her, guiding her to the bed, Claire holding her head still. The floor felt good, weirdly compelling, as Jess pressed her bare feet against it: rooted.

She glanced to one side and saw Colleen, hands limber, out slightly at her hips, staring out the bedroom door, and in a buzz-spark of rational thought Jess realized the compact lethal martial artist was guarding her against any surprises bursting through the apartment's front door.

The boys laid her down like she was made of eggshells, Oscar pulling a blanket over her. Rubbing her head with his thumb.

Luke frowning at the flask he pulled from the pocket of her jacket before putting it back. Folding the jacket, putting it on a chair, her boots beneath.

Oscar murmuring. "Luke, can I get a night light? Claire said, her enhanced ability to heal, she may be up and at it soon. Don't want her to wake up in darkness."

"Good idea," Claire chimed in.

Luke: "On it."

Luke leaning down. A glow dancing up the wall.

She had closed her eyes, wanting to relish the feel of the blanket on her bare arms, but that was the last she remembered of that moment.

 _Flash. Smash cut to black._

" _Jess-i-caaaa, didn't I warn you?"_

Screaming, sitting up, crying. Two seconds later, the mattress gave way next to her, and her nose was buried into Oscar's chest, inhaling him as if his scent was nourishment embodied, his hands smoothing her hair ….

"Main Street," he had murmured. "Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane." He ran through the litany, the tones deep in his chest as she turned her ear into it.

Her breathing steadied then. Leaning back, she had looked up at him. "How did you know?"

"You kept saying that phrase in the office." Oscar pulled her back into his arms, whispering. "I don't know what it means but it calms you, right?"

"Yeah," she scoffed. "Like I deserve calm."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Jess. They did wrong to you."

"And Mattie Franklin? How about what I did to _Mattie?"_ Jessica's voice became shrill, and in the corners of her eyes she sensed the two women taking a couple of steps toward them. "If I'd just trusted her a fucking _inch_ , I'd have been totally focused on _protecting_ her, not dividing my attention between her as a threat and the real threat in that goddamned garage."

"Bad people did something bad. End of story. Your friends are here with us and we'll fix this, Jess."

She sobbed. "I lost that sweet tough kid to a set-up a goddamned six-year-old should have seen coming."

Danny Rand had came out of the shadows and asked, "What happened? What was the set-up?"

Colleen hit his shoulder with the back of her fist and shot him a shushing glare. He gave her puppy dog eyes and a _what?-whatdidIsay?_ look. She pointed at him and he mouthed, "Sorry."

"We'll fix this," Oscar repeated. He kissed the top of her head, and she pressed her eyes shut. "I don't know what some asshole or assholes did to you in the past, Jess, but they got you always blaming yourself for more things more assholes do."

"You don't get it, Oscar," she had muttered, voice muffled in his chest. "You get near me, you die. Leave. Just … leave me."

"Please don't ask me to do that," he had said. "Because I won't force you to have me here. But here's where I want to be, pretty lady."

Blinking, she looked over his shoulder.

"Oscar …. I'm a fucking death magnet."

"Yeah, well, if you were Mary Poppins, I wouldn't find you so damned interesting. Now – rest."

"You got her for now?" Claire had murmured. "First watch?"

"I got this." Oscar's voice was firm. "All night long."

Luke had smiled at Oscar's back.

 _Glow in the wall. Night light. Good._

She let her eyes adjust until she could make out the details in the room.

She slid from the bed, testing her balance. Her feet were sure, her head … mostly clear. Her outer clothes were neatly stacked on a chair.

Her hands smelled of soap, her hair of shampoo. Someone had brushed her teeth and rinsed it. She smelled peppermint mouthwash.

She pulled on her socks, yanked on her boots, slung on her jacket. Took two quick draws off the flask from the pocket.

Oscar was on the floor, back against the wall, head slumped over his chest. Claire dozed in a chair in the corner, bags under her eyes.

 _She doesn't look right. Something's … been wrong for a while I think._

Opening the door carefully, she found Luke sleeping in an armchair. And Danny Rand on the couch with his head in Colleen's lap, as the Daughter of the Dragon snoozed as well, jaw in her palm.

 _What are we, getting the band back together?_

She shook her head. _This is on me. This shit is mine to deal with._

She made her way quietly through the window, lingering with one leg out of the frame, looking back at Oscar. She allowed herself to draw in a long breath, oil fumes, fresh air from above, stale air from below, rubber, perfume, trash, food cooking in oil, everything wafting through the street filling her lungs, and when she exhaled, still staring at Oscar's genuinely beautifully chiseled face, she let herself smile.

Unaware she was now mimicking her sister, she finished using Claire's window as her exit and jumped to the ground. She almost fell over landing, but that was normal. She looked around herself, ready for a fight, but no one appeared. _Okay, so Nelson says there's no warrant out – yet – but I gotta dial it back for right now._

 _Right._

She paced through the darkened streets, and snagged Line 2 out of Harlem, heading back home – Hell's Kitchen. _Fuck dial-it-back. Somebody's got Mattie Franklin, who_ assumed _I would protect her. Maybe the same assholes who have Rebecca Cross, maybe not. Either way, what happens now, I find both girls, I get them safe, and then I tell the world the fuck off._

In the rush of cases – and violence – she was way behind on standard investigation. A dozen questions behind. Jones' ready embrace of investigation by tech meant she'd gotten adept at doing as much with a cell phone on a subway as most people did with a computer on their desk.

She shook tired-head out of her mind and pulled up the recorded stop of David Lawson, Esq., are at least of the tracer she'd left in his jacket pocket less than twenty-four hours before. She copied the time-line and pasted it into a notes app, then checked the addresses through Google maps.

One street address dinged immediately for Keaton for Mayor Headquarters.

The other address sounded vaguely familiar as she read it. Quite familiar.

She pulled it up: an apartment building. Well – luxury condos, she realized, looking at the street-view. She didn't recognize it, but that knew that address from somewhere.

 _Maybe I ran across it on the Halberstam thing. Another "Manhattan Ribeye" location?_

She shook her head. No way of knowing what the connection was without investigation – and she had plenty to get done first. Like find Rebecca Cross. Like find Mattie Franklin.

Frustrated, she called Jessica Drew's number yet again _because fuck it, if it's 5 AM here, it's only 2 AM in Frisco, bitch can answer a phone._

But she didn't.

 _What the hell, maybe this ain't a cell number. Jesus, figures Spider-Woman O.G. would only hand out her office landline and not bother to have been there for what – 12, 15 hours since I called first?_

Making her way up to her office-apartment, Jessica sighed with relief walking in and closing the door.

She reached for a light switch, then paused, narrowing her eyes.

The room lit up as if with blue flame.

Tendrils of azure energy, flowing like plasma, wrapped around her, filling her with agony, as a bitter aroma assaulted her nostrils, filling her with revulsion. She twisted as the cobalt flames gripped her, barely making out a woman projecting them from her hands. The woman hissed and snapped her wrists back, hands up, the fire slithering off Jess and leaving her on the floor, shaking, tears of pain coating her cheeks.

"Jesus, lady!" Jess yelled. "Who the fuck _are you_?"

The woman's laugh was deep, sensual, animalistic. She stepped closer and crouched.

Jessica stared at her. Her beautiful assailant exuded strength, confidence, but also a wary tension the PI instantly recognized from her own standard posture after a lifetime of trauma and heartache. She was dressed like a cat burglar who favored softer black fabric, though it was clear there was some Kevlar underneath, stiff edges marking its coverage.

She spoke in hypnotic, British-accented alto tones. "Name's Jessica Drew. And here's the deal, bitchcakes. In the next few minutes, you are going to tell me _exactly_ what has happened to Mattie Franklin."


	9. Ep 9: AKA Frackin' Frat Boys

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 9: AKA Frackin' Frat Boys**

* * *

"Clearly, a little investigation is required," Jones said dryly. She shoved herself up slightly, resting her back against the wall, hugging herself against waves of pain echoing through her bones. The woman's liquid English accent and her electric venom blasts had confirmed her identity. "Which, for the record, is why I called you."

Drew stared at her. "Say again?"

"Yeah, here's the deal, Spidey cakes. Over the last twelve, fifteen hours, I've left at least three messages for you, asking for help on this. Helluva way to finally hit reply, by the way."

Drew's jaws worked, then she slid her cell phone from her pocket. Her eyebrows went up slowly. "Since Mattie vanished, I must've gotten like fifty 212 calls –"

"212-256-1084."

"Oh." Drew punched the screen and held the phone to her ear. Jessica could hear her own voice before the other woman punched the phone again. "You don't sound so good, here, Jones." She hung up, and slid the phone in her pocket. "Okay, so, yeah. Messing with Mattie is messing with me. Our whole spider connection and -"

"And when she disappears, you decide on suspects based on TV news? I'd be more pissed off you can't figure out a set-up if I hadn't fallen for it myself in the first place."

Drew stood, shifting her weight, staring hard, then said simply, "All right."

"What? Like that, we're all good?"

"Let's just say I believe an alcoholic rage-bitch these days a lot more than I believe – them."

"Big fan of yours, too," Jess glared but relented, taking Drew's hand when offered.

The woman pulled her easily back up to her feet. "Sorry for the – "

"Electro-venom sting-fucking me half to death thing?" Jess snapped. She folded her arms again, taking in the other woman's curtain of black hair as she swung it behind herself, her facial angles stark in the light coming through the windows of the darkened office.

"Yeah, that. That thing." She flexed her hands. "The powers come with the body, the body reacts, and – anyway. Sorry."

Jess sighed. "So, you're Jessica Drew."

"And you're Jessica Jones."

The two women shifted on their feet, then each allowed a smile to ghost her face.

"I thought," Drew said, "you'd be taller."

"Yeah, well, I thought you'd be smarter." Jess cocked her head. "So, Mattie's your protégé? You were the original Spiderwoman, right?"

Drew rolled her eyes in response. "Don't remind me."

"The Dark Angel of San Francisco and all that?"

"Bite me."

Jones rolled her shoulders. "But that was you, right?"

"Was. Kinda burned out on the whole costumes and swingy-stringy super shit."

"Welcome to the club."

Drew's smile grew. "Don't want to be an Avenger?"

"Like they'd care? Psychotic fucker raped me for months and I wasn't even missed by the guests of Chez Stark."

"You think the Avengers ignoring you is bad, try Hydra obsessing over you." She shuddered involuntarily. "The shit they did to me … well, look, it was S.H.I.E.L.D. that got me out. Nick Fury saved me. And put the Avengers together. So yeah, for a while later, I was with Earth's Greatest Heroes." She rolled her eyes, then tilted her head and smiled. "You know, if you joined Stark, I bet you'd get a really hot outfit to wear. Maybe a merch licensing deal. Still don't want to be an Avenger?"

"Bunch of frackin' frat boys with a hot Russian bodyguard?" Jones snorted. She gestured around her blown out, beat down office. "Decided being a PI fit better. Like," she added pointedly, "you did, in the Bay. I just skipped your bounty hunting middle step."

"Yeah," Drew sighed. "I've heard it said I could almost be you." She walked to a chair and slid down with silken grace, staring out the window. The light from the street struck her face fully now, which was a study in strain, bags beneath her eyes. "Almost."

Jones finally flipped the office lights on and leaned on her desk, staring down at the former Spider-Woman. "Jesus, Drew, you get any sleep at all lately?"

She shook her head. "Not since I saw about Mattie. I met her awhile back at the Ex. I went there, actually, to meet her when I heard about her powers. Talked to her, the usual welcome-to-spidey-club bollocks. She kept telling me I was her idol." Her voice turned angry – at herself. "Mattie kept telling me I was her … hero."

"I get that, too," Jones murmured.

"I was neck deep in the Red Hampton case, up in Chicago, last couple weeks, then I heard about this." She ran her palm hard over her face, then glowered toward the floor. "Sorry, again. Only, your name was all over this and you do have a certain reputation for – well."

"Yeah." Jess frowned but tossed her head back and forth, as if weighing things out. "I've been known to be a little punch first, cuss a lot during. Questions later. When they wake up. But that's mostly just when assholes paint me into a corner. Mostly."

"You've got amazing strength." Drew tilted her head to her left, hair falling to the side, staring at Jess from the corners of her eyes. "But you're still vibrating like a tuning fork from the venom blasts. You want to slug me? Might get the tension out and God knows I deserve it."

"How about I put that energy into telling you what I know," she said, walking around the desk, and pulling a fresh pint of Cutty Sark from the drawer. "And then you tell me what you know. Pool our knowledge. And we kinda take it from there. We'll find them. Both."

Jessica Drew's gaze snapped up. She raised an eyebrow. "Them both?"

"Yeah," Jess sighed. "Case I've been working."

Drew's eyebrow raised. "Let me guess. Another missing girl, and nobody cares."

"Not many, no," Jess agreed. "But then Mattie is powered and my girl may be, too. I'm thinking maybe Watchdogs or those Phineas Faithful sharks." She shifted on her feet, wagging the bottle in her hand. "So … as long as you're here …."

Drew tilted her head to the right now, that curtain of hair sliding. "Heard you didn't like partnering up."

"Didn't say 'partner,' said 'pool knowledge.'"

Drew smiled, watching Jess uncap the bottle as she came back around and set it on the front of the desk midway between her chair the vacant one next to it.

Jones looked around. "I have a couple of glasses …."

Drew took the bottle, tipped it to her mouth, and gulped hard twice. Wiping the back of her hand over her lips, she handed it to Jess and said, "Glasses are for Avengers boys."

Jessica held the whiskey up to the light, peered at the liquid level, and smiled. "We're gonna need a bigger bottle."

* * *

"We need her to go wild," Lawson muttered into his phone. "Why hasn't she lost her damn mind and lost her shit all over New York? I mean, who the hell is this woman? She's done. Why doesn't she know she's done?"

He paused, fuming.

"Oh, don't give me that shit! Look. I know PTSD, and I'm telling you we just keep squeezing." He rubbed his eyes. "At a minimum, I need her on a hair trigger if we go to the arrest scenario."

He stared down into the streets below his office. "What about that fat little prick down in Texas, the web-show host or whatever the fuck it is he does with his time. You had a thought on how to use him to turn the pressure on her more."

He listened. Smiled. And nodded. "Make the call."

* * *

Smithie was almost shaking, obviously nervous as her idol greeted her, scooting over to make room on the bus seat. Smithie's camera bag slung over her shoulder shifted to her lap as she sat. Jones hadn't been sure the girl would take the job, or be available, when she'd called Petit Temps and asked for her new number.

"Thanks for this," Jess said. "Just a recap of our conversation on the phone. The whole texting setup and what happened was _not_ your fault. That's on me."

Smithie nodded slowly.

"You told me you'd been mugged, I let the detail slip, and … yeah. But clearly, you're on their radar enough they took your cell knowing it was a way to manipulate me. If I was, you know, stupid as shit, which I was on this occasion." She handed the girl her cell. "Put the number of your new phone there. We need to stay in touch 24/7 until this is over."

Punching in the number, Smithie whispered, "We just need to get Mattie back. And Rebecca Cross."

"That's what we're going to do." Jessica asked for Smithie's phone and punched several numbers into her contacts list. Her voice was steel. "But there's a pattern here. Somebody's taking young women. And that hits home with me. Hard. So I may not always be thinking clearly."

"Because of Kilgrave."

Jessica nodded. "I mean, all these girls, three now …" She rubbed her forehead. "That's counting that girl, Miranda Pritchett - everybody's implying I killed her? Look. She was dead when I got there. I was sent there by a woman who claimed to be her sister, Sandra. But now I know her real name is Sylvania Packard. Confirmed it while riding over here – found a photo of her with Lawson on the Net, some gala event." She paused. "Do you understand what that means?"

"Not quite …. Well, no, not at all."

"It's common in a covert operation for someone to adopt a fake name with the same initials as their real name. Makes so many things easier." She sighed. "But think about it, Smithie. Sylviana Packard came to me with this bullshit story and this fake name. They had to match her initials to somebody and they … must've just picked somebody at random. Who had nothing to do with anything but just her initials. They killed her just because her fucking initials worked for them, and they needed a dead girl to plant enhancement drugs on and then have me show up." She looked away. "That's who we're dealing with, here."

Smithie started to speak when Jess raised her hand.

"I've got somebody else approaching Packard – she'll see me coming. But there's one more thing you deserve to know." She told her about the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet and Maria Hill. When Smithie finally seemed to have absorbed the shock, Jess said simply. "So, if you want o like, miss this stop, and go home, I'll call some of my friends to make sure you're safe while I wrap it up and otherwise you're out of this. I put Luke Cage's number in there, and a guy named Eddy Costa, he's the only cop I trust."

The girl shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly. "Until Rebecca and Mattie are safe, again."

"Good," Jess nodded.

Smithie laughed softy. "So, am I an official Defender, now?"

"Well," Jess said wryly, "for now, just stay sharp and let me make sure nothing aimed at me comes at you – again."

 _It's why I gotta end this fast,_ Jessica thought.

"Ms. Jones?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Jessica. Strictly a first name basis in the Sniper Target Clubhouse."

"You don't sleep. Not really. You get the shit kicked out of you and you just get up and keep going. And you worry about everyone else but you. And –"

"Okay, look – no offense, but you're starting to sound like Malcolm used to."

She frowned, not having heard of Malcom, and plowed on. "What you're missing," she said in a small but determined voice, "is the obvious."

"So tell me the obvious."

"You're trying to beat their game. But you _are_ the game."

Jessica blinked.

"They're pushing you. You." She shook her head and looked away. "They want you to blow up. It's part of the game plan. Just don't play their game."

Jessica thought. Hard.

She folded her hand over Smithie's forearm and tease-murmured. "Clearly, a lot of potential. Let's just say you're on a trial basis as a Defender, eh? Maybe we need a video tech specialist."

They rode in silence most of the rest of the way. Jess found a reasonably concealed position for Smithie to film from across the street of the house she was set to visit.

"I walk in, I demand answers. Film me going in. From there, film everybody going in and out. You got the batteries for that?"

Smithie nodded.

Jessica exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Grab anything else on video you think I might want to look at." She ran her hands down her thighs, then shoved out onto the street with her fists doubled, calling over her shoulder. "I trust your judgment."

Smithie was glowing as Jones made her to the door at 177A Bleecker Street.

* * *

"Okay," Jessica said. "I'm here and you're on the clock." She collapsed in a chair facing him.

Dr. Stephen Strange just stared at her from behind a desk that could have doubled as a medieval fort. His gaze was hooded, his fingers were steepled at his lips, his chin up slightly, but it was the detachment in his eyes that particularly infuriated her. Jess was not a fan of detachment in others but cultivated its mannerisms for herself fanatically. Dr. Strange achieved the effect effortlessly.

"So, you actually read all these books?" she asked, looking around his office. "Or you just keep paying the Pretentious Asshole Book Club Monthly fees?"

"You don't like me."

"Keen deduction, Penn. Or is it Teller? Ever think of becoming a PI?" She folded her arms, slumping further in her chair across from him. "The medical insurance is crap, but you work fewer children's parties. Not that I don't like kids."

"You don't like me," he replied evenly, maddingly unoffended, "because you still love your sister. And you don't like her involvement with those in my fields of interest."

"Woah, bunny-in-the-hat." She stood up. "I'm not here to talk about Trish –"

"Hellcat."

"Hell, no. Not that it matters to me. We're two minutes in and already done here." She turned, headed for the door.

"I'd heard your temper tends to get the better of you."

She couldn't move. She pushed twice and could. Not. Move.

"I've arranged the meeting you want," Strange told her, "so you two can visit."

She kept her voice light. "You don't want an angry PI who punches thirty weight classes above her one-twenty-five to visit your face, you'll cut me loose right now, Cagliostro."

"So, you do know some history, then? Perhaps I could introduce you to more."

She stumbled forward as if invisible ropes had been cut away from her ankles and whirled to face him. "You just hit me with mind control? You know _my_ history, right?" She paced toward him. "If you didn't want introduced to my fists, that was about the dumbest thing you could have done, magic man."

"If I may, Nancy – or is it Ann? You might want to look at the 'hat' behind you," he lifted one hand. "Playing the bunny this evening will be Mr. Anthony Edward Stark."

She whirled again and saw that a blazing circle had opened behind her. A well-dressed man in Vegas shaded glasses was just stepping through, glancing at the ring with cool admiration.

"Gotta say, this beats Uber," Tony Stark said to the man behind the desk. "Dr. Strange, I presume?"

He nodded once. "Mr. Stark."

Tony stepped toward Jessica, refocusing on her. "Ms. Jones."

"Tin Man."

"It's Iron Man."

She shifted on her feet, flexing her fists. "Yeah, well, we'll see."

He tilted his chin up. "Anyway, I'm here more as Tony Stark. You'll have noticed the lack of hardware."

"I didn't notice. Couldn't see past the ego. You know that's your real exoskeleton, right? The ego?"

"Have we met?"

"I'm familiar with your work."

"Just here to answer a couple questions, Ms. Jones," Tony plowed on, ignoring her, which only tapped open another valve of steam inside her. "And I'd appreciate it if you could keep this meeting between ourselves. Leave your street heroes club out of it?" He cut off a protest with his raised palm.

Circling around her, carefully beyond the reach of her arms and fists, he stopped forming a triangle point set between Strange and Jones. "I don't see how it helps the other – Defenders? Isn't it? You and –" he snapped his fingers, frowning, trying to recall the names. "Luke Cage, I think, right? And Danny Rand."

"Of course, you'd know the rich kid," she muttered. "Not the Hero of Harlem."

"Danny Rand? Well, he is the Immortal Iron Fist."

Jessica leaned to the side, arching her eyebrows while looking at Strange and making a fist of her own bobbing it up and down in the international signal for wanking. "More like the Eternal Knucklehead," she told the mage.

"Look, whether we're talking about sweet Danny McKnuckleface or your yellow shirted H.R. Pufnchest, there's no sense in them carrying the burden of your own enmity toward the Avengers. Or the government. Or – well." Stark smiled. "Seems like you've got it in for pretty much the entire world. But you're not going to work your way out of this one by getting mad and punching people."

"Seriously, guys, this is starting to sound like one of my anger management classes, and you're not even court ordered. And you, you're like, Head Avenger, meaning tied close to S.H.I.E.L.D., who kinda tried to fucking kill me. So, first question, why should I believe a word you say?"

"Well," Stark folded his hands in front of himself, stepping a bit closer, giving Stephen Strange a glance. "There is my famous sagacity."

She scowled at him, half turned, then turned back and squared off facing him. "Sweet Christmas, you really _are_ a pompous piece of shit."

"I – really?" Stark winced and kept his brow knotted. "You think so? Because I was thinking of hitting on you after we wrapped up business."

"You so much as blink a 'come hither', Stark, and I swear I will hand you your eyeballs."

"Okay, guess I'll just chalk this one up as a brief relationship."

"Yeah," she drew the back of her finger-gloved hand over her mouth. "Even by your standards."

He laughed. "So, we keep it at a business level. Frankly, I'm off the market these days anyway, so don't get too hot and bothered."

"What bothers me," she said, "is that you're still here right now. Why are you still here right now?" She glanced at Strange. "You. Houdini. Feel free to weigh in, anytime."

"I'm quietly enjoying the show," he replied with a tight smile. "And you don't strike me as someone who'd appreciate applause." He arched a brow, stare shifting to Stark. "I'd move this along. Ms. Jones has many gifts, but patience isn't one of them. I suspect she's losing interest."

"Fine," Stark shot his cuffs. "Shots fired. Quinjet. S.H.I.E.L.D. logo." He smirked at the sorcerer. "Is it just me, or did the temperature here just take about five upticks?"

Pleased with himself, he didn't notice Jessica's prowl until she was reaching for him. By then, his instinctive reaction only led to her slapping his raised forearms away before seizing the collar of his suit.

"I'd rip this jacket apart to get you to focus," she seethed. "But I doubt I could even afford dry cleaning it, let alone replacing it."

"My checkbook," Dr. Strange offered, "is in the drawer."

"Really?" Stark frowned. "Just like that? You're giving up a bro for some woman you met, what, ten minutes ago?"

"I already like her better," Strange said. He was flipping rapidly through an old, heavy book on his desktop. "I'd say you and I have another ten minutes of conversation before I call you a douche bag, but I sense it'll have to wait for another occasion."

Stark had half-turned his head, pressing at his ear. "Thanks, Nat, copy that," he muttered, then looked up and spoke normally. "Or we could just keep this down to nine minutes."

"You got nine seconds, Tin Man. Then I'm gone. Clearly, you're not here to answer my questions. You think I'll believe what you tell me, anyway?""

"Strangely, though," the sorcerer interjected, his finger pinned at a point on a page of his book. "You should. Since he won't remember this meeting at all." He gave a lively mutter in some dead language.

The other two stared at Strange.

"Wait –" Tony said.

"- what?" Jessica snapped.

"Done. He won't even remember meeting either one of us. Arguably eliminates at least some motivation for Tony to lie." He muttered another short phrase, then snapped the book shut. "And that seals it. He'll speak the truth for at least the next four or five minutes."

A snark choked in her throat when she saw Dr. Strange slump in his chair, suddenly grey and weary. Whatever he'd just done had taken a lot from him.

"I can only do that spell every few years," he told her. "So, you might want to get started. And keep it terse for once, both of you."

She turned on Stark, who had straightened himself, squaring off against her. She had to admit he had guts. "Okay, Hefner. Shots. Quinjet. S.H.I.E.L.D.. Ring a bell? But start at the beginning. Why are you even here, talking to a mere Defender?"

Tony smirked. Jones almost protested that the spell hadn't worked, then realized Stark's superior air meant he was being as honest as possible. "Because whoever is behind all this, it isn't the good guys. Shots fired? Sure. But not by S.H.I.E.L.D.. All that's left of S.H.I.E.L.D. is a band of turned-out guerillas with a few nice toys. And not by the Avengers. Even if we didn't find your street anarchy useful, we don't have the time to mess with it right now."

"Go on."

"Divide and conquer, keep up this narrative about how dangerous and unbalanced you street powered types are – it would all work for a certain political pitch."

"Meaning Keaton."

"He's a cat's paw," he said, eyes bouncing back and forth considering all the possibilities.

"Explain Maria Hill taking shots at me."

"Not Hill. Her LMD."

Jessica arched her eyebrows.

"Life Model Decoy. Very lifelike androids originally meant as doubles for assassins to take shots at. Looks like somebody went a different way with that scenario."

"Jesus, Stark, you're into fembots, now?"

"Hey, LMD's weren't my invention. Totally a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing. But you know how tech proliferates. I hear the alley-way kettles are even cooking up animals, now."

Jessica quickly shifted her thinking from who (what?) she was confronting over to how she'd confront her. "How old is this Hill LMD? Ever fought an inhuman, a powered?"

"Don't know. But it's the first we knew she existed, so unlikely."

"She herself isn't 'powered' in abilities, right? To blend in she'd have to be 'merely' human, like the real Maria Hill."

Stark shrugged. "Usually that's the case. But I take your point. You'd have a strength advantage in a fist fight."

"Then let's get back to this. Fembot Hill slid into a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet."

"Quinjet, yes, but not actually one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. Stolen. Re-detailed." He frowned. "Surely you're familiar with fast jack paint jobs in Hell's Kitchen?"

"Thought of it. Of course, that means that instead of an incompetent, self-appointed, guardian of us, all super powerful organization, I'm dealing with an evil but brutally effective one that's our self-appointed overlord. That's what you're saying, right. It was Hydra?"

"It wasn't Hydra."

She blanched. "Well, this ain't gangsta shit. I know gangsta shit and this ain't it. You two are the only outfits that fly those things."

"Again, I'm an Avenger, not S.H.I.E.L.D., and Natasha Romanoff has been tracing a 'lost' Quinjet, a casualty of the battle in D.C. Insight Quinjet, so weapon heavy."

"An Insight?" Dr. Strange stirred. "Shorter wingspan, I hear. Better for urban operations."

"Boys and their toys," Jess snorted.

"We're wondering if that's your bird. Hydra's survivors sold it to a Ukrainian arms dealer. She sold it to some guy in Africa. From there?" He shrugged. "Who knows."

" _Some guy_ got a name?"

"Ulysses Klaue."

"I heard Klaue was dead." Strange murmured.

"He was feeling much better at the time," Stark answered. "Things went south for him after. And no Quinjet in his remaining inventory. Natasha drilled through the files. His files and everything out there concerning him. Then Hydra's. We even had a S.H.I.E.L.D. hacker suprema take a look."

"Who?" Jessica asked.

"Daisy Johnson."

"Quake? Actually, I'm okay with that," she said. "I'm kind of a fan."

"She's kind of an anarchist waiting to happen, or rather happen again, so I'm not surprised."

"Well, I _am_ a freak," she said, acid dripping around the slur. "Quake stood up for us against the Watchdogs back when. You know, while S.H.I.E.L.D. sat on its ass and the Avengers sat up in the clouds?"

"Whatever, she didn't find anything. Where-ever this Quinjet was moved, it was way off book, and it's not Hydra's. Which is good, because anybody without that network is dry on ammo now."

Jessica sighed. "So, you don't know," she said archly, "who has this Quinjet, but you're sure the shooter was Fembot Hill?"

"The real Agent Hill was with me on the night in question, Ms. Jones," he said, mockingly mimicking a cop's formality. He pulled a thumb drive from his pocket and tossed to Jessica, who caught it easily. "Drone surveillance video from that night. The LMD's a good job, looks just like Maria, moves like her. But it's not her."

Jessica held the thumb drive up shoulder high. "Avengers got all of New York on camera these days?"

He hesitated. "The surveillance related to something you stumbled into the middle of. Cameras were on, you showed up, then Fembot Hill as you call her took her shot. We just happened to be drone-camming live at the time. Somebody's playing you, Ms. Jones."

"Is that you volunteering to help figure it out?"

"Nope. Got – stuff. Stuff to do. But I have confidence in you. Just in case, though -" He pulled a cell phone and flipped it through the air toward her. She caught it, turned it over in her hand. "Here. Use wisely. One time only. Like, end of the world time."

"What? We're playing Kim Possible now? Text you, beep you –"

"Oh, that call won't go to me. It'll go to Carol Danvers."

She arched her eyebrow skeptically. "Captain Marvel? Seriously?"

"She likes your style. Says in another version of your lives, you two might've been besties. A chick thing, I guess, I don't get it, but – for those very special emergencies, this is your 911. Not that you're without coverage."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I didn't walk in here without putting some birds in the sky, and you know good and well what they've been seeing." He tapped the earpiece. "As do I."

She stared. He stared back.

"Fine, coy dog, don't tell me," Jessica slid the phone into her pocket. "You're sure," she asked Dr. Strange, not taking her eyes off of Stark, "this guy is still on the Truth-o-matic or whatever?"

Strange shrugged. "Ask fast."

Jones stepped toward Stark twice, her eyes gone from their usual liquid shadows to something like flint. "Guy named Samuel Cross. Ever run into him at Club One Percent or where-ever you rich kids hang out and harass the staff?"

He shook his head once, warily, but looking genuinely puzzled.

She sighed, glancing at Strange, swinging her duffle bag in front of herself to dig into it. "Your spell just fizzled. He's lying. For some reason."

Jess handed Stark the photo of himself with Cross, folded her arms, and glared.

"Ah, the Bunbury Club." He mockingly looked at it from five different angles, then handed it back. "So?"

"So, you know him." She held up the photo and planted her fingertip on the target's head. "He's right the fuck next to you!"

"I don't know who Samuel Cross is, but that's Aleksander Lukin. Quite a recluse, but so what?" he shrugged, cocking his head back and forth. "What's wrong with knowing him?"

Masking her shock, Jess turned to Dr. Strange a moment before looking at Stark again.

"How do you know him, exactly?"

Stark rolled his eyes. "You're the one hanging out with ex-Hydra spiders, so I hear, but do you see me getting paranoid?"

She planted her right heel and folded her arms.

"He's a … Bunburyist." He went on, and for the first time in the conversation, possibly one of the few times in his life, Tony Stark looked a bit abashed. "It's a game. The Bunbury Club, we go out and play at being entirely different people, develop and practice personae and – yeah, just build on them. It's useful for disappearing, enjoying another life from time to time. You can be Earnest in town and Bunbury in the country."

Jones groaned. "And rich kids with a lotta time on their hands every day of the week. Ever occur to you that's a great cover for spies, racketeers, con men?"

"Sure," Stark replied. "It's why probably half the members are CIA, FBI, what have you. Keeping track. Oh, by the way," Stark said, "you know Alec Johnson, right?"

"The junk supplement salesmen who uses conspiracy theories as click-bait?"

"Yeah, and talk-show host, although you've obviously focused on his business model."

"I'm well aware he buys into the whole powered-gifted-Nephilim bullshit."

"While selling seaweed to cure cancer, right. Thing is, he's new-doxing you on his show tonight. Thought you'd want to know. Little show of good faith."

"He's what?"

"New-doxing. The upgrade to doxing he invented, broadcasting your address and number so people will know where to harass you."

"I work where I live. It's no secret."

"But he's putting you on the radar screen for the nut jobs."

"Why would he bother?"

"Usually he does it to shut up the families of mass shooting victims who claim the event really did happen, or to make sure no pizza parlor goes without a shotgun visit or two. In your case, probably to distract you from your investigation. He's got his own money and that of a ton of listeners pouring into Keaton for Mayor." Stark shrugged. "Thought you'd want to know. You're welcome."

"How do _you_ know?"

"It came up. Now – favor for favor?"

"Yeah, 'cuz you've done so much for me already."

"There's a Sokovian girl, lives in your building. I put her there, with her grandmother."

Jones dipped her chin at this shot from left field. "Blind. Right."

"Yeah. Wanda Maximoff wanted them looked after. And arranged for them to get a cat. So, actually, I kind of tweaked the cat. Didn't want it dying easily on them after all the – well, you know, all the dying the kid has already been through."

Jess plowed her fingers through her hair. "Jesus, Stark, do you ever just leave things alone?"

"Apparently it wandered off?" He glanced at Strange, seeming genuinely puzzled. "Did you know cats do that?"

"I already found the damn cat, Stark! Anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeah, is it true you got a connect to Ex Vivian? I'm looking for a band for a thing we're throwing for Thor and -"

She slid her gaze to Dr. Strange. "I got nothing else for this guy."

Stark held up one hand majestically. "But suppose the Avengers have something in mind for you when this is done? No costume, you could totally just Nat it -"

When Jess rolled her eyes, Strange nodded, waved a hand casually, and a second fiery circle swallowed Tony.

"Not gonna lie, Gandalf," Jess said. "That's one helluva way to hang up on a sales call."

Strange frowned, shoving back in his chair. "Just do me a favor. Hellcat? Let her grow. I'm not saying you have to resolve whatever the hell it is between you two."

"What do you care?"

"I know how hard transition is. I'm just saying, give her some room."

"Trust me," Jessica snorted. "Trish can have all the room she wants."

* * *

Only when Smithie shyly ran the video through the viewfinder did Jessica understand _everything_ Stark had said.

"I'll be damned," Jess twisted her head.

Three clips, none longer than five seconds, but each one had seen a plain-clothes Drew slinging herself around in fine spidery form from rooftop to rooftop.

Jones had spent enough time snapping photos of people boning in alleys to admire how delicately well Smithie managed the glare of sun, the gleam of metal and glass, and still managed court-ready images clearly identifying Drew.

"That's –"

"Yeah, I recognized her from the Ex," Smithie said. "Well and then there's – what she's doing."

"Yeah, we made a deal a few hours ago that we'd pool information." Jess lifted her gaze up to the student's and asked, "What do you think this means?"

Smithie blinked. "She's just … protecting you? Maybe? Looking out for you?

"Then why is she following me instead of just _telling_ me she was going to be there?"

"Ms. Jones," Smithie began, then at Jess' huff switched to, "Jessica. You don't make it easy, you know? I don't know Ms. Drew, but maybe she's figured that out, already?"

"Okay, re-thinking that whole Ms. Jones thing …." Jess said dryly. At the girl's face, she smiled. "Just kidding. And hey – great catch. We're gonna make a Defender out of you yet."

* * *

Trish had almost hissed at the screech of subway brakes as the train pulled into the stop, but she didn't sway like people around her as a strong back-breeze hit the commuters. She was still learning to mask her feline impulses when in "plain clothes," and suspected the magical elements introduced by Daimon weren't helping, but she was hooked on the power, the cryptic – everything she'd always wanted – that was blooming inside her.

Relishing it so fully, in fact, she didn't realize that Eddy Costa was standing behind her until she heard him say, "Yeah, what's up, Dinah?"

Trish had turned with a whirl of her skirt and stared at him. He nodded, started to say something, then grimaced humorously and tucked his phone into his suit coat's side pocket. "She's not much on protocol, that one." He offered his hand. "Detective Eddy Costa, NYPD."

Glancing at the badge folded outside the suit's upper pocket, she shook hands uneasily and said, "Yeah, you handled the situation with Jessica's mother. Didn't expect to hear from you again, did something turn up?"

His eyes narrowed, noting that she seemed nervous about that subject. Both Jess and Trish had denied she'd been anywhere near the park where – his final report concluded – Jessica Jones killed her mother in self-defense. He slotted her nervous interest in another file in his head; for now it was a good basis to ask, "Mind catching the next train?"

She shook her head, glancing over his shoulder, and let him lead her to a quiet spot further down in the station.

"So," he said. "I thought Jessica did a very good thing, but now I'm thinking it was you." He ran it down, abbreviated and without names: a tip to federal authorities allowed them to find and arrest a very dangerous fugitive; he wasn't allowed to know who gave the tip even though he had follow-up questions about an on-going conspiracy; he had reason to think it was because the tipster – while not Jones – had some strong connection to the her.

He folded his arms. "Somebody Jones might have sent the tip through, so to speak."

Her eyes flared, angry that – _of course_ \- it couldn't have _her_ , it had to be Jessica that was the hero. She hunched her shoulders, stroking her jaw, and said, "Or somebody who knew on her own? And just happens to be associated with Jess?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Or," he agreed. "Sure. Somebody who's – a reporter, say – building her own 'brand', so to speak. Somebody good cops might look to in the future." He ran his thumb over his chin. "That would great."

She shifted her shoulder back, hand going to her hip, and smiled, staring down the way with what she hoped was an air of mystery and sway. "Yeah," she said. "A partnership, maybe." Her eyes shifted back to his. "What are you looking for specifically."

"Punk named Denny Haynes. Went to ground very recently, but we need to find him." He leaned in and dropped his voice, emphasizing a sense of confidentiality. "Got a life at stake here."

"Haynes," she shook her head in disgust. "Yeah, I know about him, but keeping track of him is hit and miss."

"Wait," Eddy frowned. "You've been tracking him?"

She shifted on her feet. "All I know – right now – is that he's been cozying up to a powered kid named Ian Soo. And he has – something – he wants to plant on, or use on, somebody, and means to use Ian to do it."

Reporter Trish noticed as Costa's eyes hazed a bit in thought. "Maybe Ian's in on it to begin with?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No. But Ian's friend with that new superhero in Hell's Kitchen. Hellcat."

"Hellcat?" Eddy mugged a second. "Look, you think you could track down this Haynes punk? You know, through your sources?"

Now she knew he was stroking her ego, but her soul still purred. She nodded, "I'll stay on it –if! If, you tell me what to watch out for around him? I mean, so I don't walk into a trap."

He nodded, deciding on what was "just enough" to keep her chasing the dot on the floor. "He's got some high-powered pill he can use to take down and turn even a powered person." He shrugged. "But who he wants to use it on? Don't know."

Her heart slammed at her chest. "But it fits. Ian Soo leads to Hellcat herself?"

"Maybe," he pondered. "You run into her, better warn Hellcat. And see if she'll talk to me."

* * *

David Lieberman's step slowed as he neared his car, but never quite stopped, staring the brunette in the passenger seat be sitting there so laconically, smiling at him.

"I –" he looked around the garage, then leaned back into the window. "I can see you sitting right there, you know?"

"Yes, I know," she said with a liquid English accent accent. "Hoped it would eliminate any sense of alarm."

He looked around again, then focused back on her. "This is an NSA facility. You with the cousins, or ….?"

"Free-lance, actually. Jessica Drew." She tilted her head, a long sheaf of dark hair sliding to her right. "And it's a private matter."

Lieberman was brilliant, street-wise, and fully aware of covert matters, but had no clue the former Spider-Woman was gently coating him with pheromones. Enough to bend him, not break him – and even at that she sensed an immediate push-back, confirming her source's claim about the man's devotion to his wife and family.

But _everyone_ was at least a little pliable to chemistry and she only needed cooperation. He sighed and slid into the driver's seat. "So, what's this about?"

"I just watched two teams in covert surveillance over a friend of mine."

"I see," he rubbed his eyes. "And of course, it's the big bad us that's –"

"Not at all. One was NYPD, and they don't concern me. The other was merc, five contractors. Three men, two women. Spotter-shooter sniper team and six feet on the ground, two at each corner, all with press credentials, there to verify the kill if it had been ordered."

He frowned, staring at her. "Sniper squad."

"Got it in one. But they were lax, joking, taking their eyes off target – took me sixty seconds to realize it was just a practice run."

"So, what do you want from me?"

"An introduction."

"I have no idea who they were."

"I don't mean to them."

"Who?"

She leaned back, easing her aching muscles by flexing her legs hard, feet planting on the floor board, her back arched up, and then plopped back into the seat. "Ever try to smash a spider?" she asked him.

"What?"

"A spider. Takes a few swats, even with a boot, before you can finally keep one down for good. Because spiders are survivors."

"You want me to kill a spider?"

She laughed, and a wisp of a smile ghosted her lips.

"Not at all," she said. "I'm just saying, there are creatures who are very hard to kill." She leaned forward. "And I believe you know one of them. I want to talk to Frank Castle."

"Frank's dead. He ain't talking to nobody."

"I'm betting he's alive and will talk about protecting a friend of his."

* * *

Five messages from one client, and it was hard to blame her. She'd scraped up a modest fee, she'd paid Jess, she'd put her crumbling idyllic life in the PI's hands and hadn't heard from her in some time. So, in the middle of a shit-a-cane, Jones had realized she needed to take a couple hours and wrap up the Pastor McSwizzlestick case.

She had checked: his prayer cruise had ended; he was back to cruising online; and, yes, those long days at sea debating how best to crush the openly gay had left him starving for relief when he'd logged onto BearCubs-dot-com and found Jessica's alt apparently pining to finally meet him.

As much as she wanted to confront Sylviana Packard, she had to agree it made sense that Drew could get closer, faster, as an unknown factor in Packard – Lawson circles. She'd shoved the data to her west coast counter-part: phone bill, Facebook, Amazon account, credit card vacation billing – Jones had kept mining, winnowing, until she had one Sylviania Packard in New York City whose monthly payout could possibly be made off anything less than a Lawson, Stiviano & Silver salary.

A tip, a tap, and her screen had the woman's cell phone pulled up. Another tap: address.

"This type is so easy to squeeze," Drew had said. They worked through the plan and she had been out the door in a flash.

Then Jones logged on to BearCubs and her alt had begged to meet the good pastor.

Right away. Now.

The Reverend was annoyed at the coffee shop chosen for the meeting, tapping his cell phone idly on the table in between checking it every thirty seconds. When Jessica slid into the chair across from him, he glanced at her, flicked his fingers as if she was a fly to shoo away, and said, "Seat's taken. Sorry."

"He asked me to drop by, let you know he's running late."

He turned and stared. "Excuse me?"

She shifted to face him, sliding her phone casually onto the tabletop to record the audio, and smiled.

First, she laid the pretext on thick. The collegian's sister; only person in his family he trusted with his secret – oh, did he mention her during their online chats, wow, even described how she looked, why how nice! – and she was so glad a nice older man was interested.

Then she turned the talk to him, while they waited. She walked him through enough corroboration he was the man in the message box, with enough obvious subtext of what he wanted to happen next, that she had his ass on a plate.

Then she handed it to him.

PI license out, flashes of what she'd screen-capped, all the background notes. He was cooked and his protests ended sooner than she expected.

She knew the drill from here. She'd seen it plenty of times, researched it … from here the marriage was over and he'd have to spend at least a year out of active ministry, laying low and cruising lower while in theory he was in some sort of prayerful retreat. When he was welcomed back as redeemed, his loss of income and – more importantly to him – power, would run "low" for years. It was even possible he would have to get by on something in the high six figures, instead of his long-standing seven. She could almost see his eyes running the numbers in his head.

Then she pulled the print-outs from her jacket. The ones detailing the embezzlement, the money laundering, the various ways he'd insured his flock paid for his habits. It was one thing he'd never be forgiven – least of all, by the police.

She had to admire his reaction, if not the man himself. Devastated, fearful, but keeping control of his thoughts … and then leaning forward, handing her the papers back.

"Suppose I could give the cops something – someone – bigger?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Look, it's pen time, but frankly embezzlement and money laundering are how most business is done in this country. _Bigger_ is easy to find. Still, what could you possibly –"

"Child pornography," McSwizzlestick said. "Active involvement in a dark web online trading ring."

"Well …." She stared, her heart racing. "How would you know unless you were involved yourself?"

"Because I was asked to be involved, but declined," he sighed. "Not my thing. But the fool knows how untouchable he is. He sent me things in writing, including his username. So a little federal level investigation and …."

"But you never reported it."

"Ms. Jones, in this world," he leaned forward, voice lowered, eyes scared. "You don't mess with Chris Hoskins."

She sat back, letting her phone recording app keep running, while ostentatiously pulling a small digital recorder like reporter's use from her jacket pocket. She snapped it on, identified herself; identified him; verified that everything he was about to say was being said voluntarily and was truthful and he was fine with it being recorded.

She exhaled slowly.

"Start from the beginning."

* * *

"Ah, now that is a heavy load! May I help you? I was just going inside myself, I've just found a flat on the fourth floor." Jessica Drew knew one could never under-estimate the disarming power of an English accent in disarming suspicions from Americans. When it came from an attractive, confident lady like herself, offering help, it was like putting on a leash.

So, she didn't need to do more than habitually suppress her fog of pheromones for the other woman to turn and smile at her.

Drew was walking up behind her in an expensive suit dress, having waited for two hours to see someone struggling with groceries at the apartment building's door while trying to punch the security key. The lucky winner of her help nodded, saying, "That'd be great! Thank you!"

"Let me just get that," Drew said, taking enough of the packages to let the woman push buttons freely. She carried them to the lady's door and demurred charmingly at the effusive thanks. "Just off to my flat for now, take care!"

She went to an apartment on the third floor and knocked. Satisfaction filled her at the shock short-circuiting an expectant smile on Packard's face.

"Where's David?"

Jess shoved her back, stumbling. "Screwing someone else, I should imagine," she said.

"But he –" she paused.

"Ah, yes, well," Drew said, prowling toward her after the kicking the door closed behind her. "The thing about you people who play games with others is you so often forget how easily they can be played back."

The lawyer blinked.

"Oh, the bloody text was from _me_ , not his secretary, you silly bitch!" Drew exploded.

"Who are you?"

"Someone looking for Mattie Franklin and Rebecca Cross." She began dancing blue tendrils of electricity along her fingertips.

Packard's knees bent in as if she had almost feinted. "Oh, my God, you're one of them." She flustered through a half-dozen starts of a new sentence before settling on, "Look, I have no idea where they're keeping those girls."

Drew tilted her head, arching one eyebrow. "Now, there's a surprise," she said. "They didn't tell the dumbest one in the room where the prize jewels are."

It took Packard a moment. "Wait, then – you know I'm telling the truth?"

"About that?" Drew shrugged. "Sure. Do I care?" She turned one wrist, causing the fields of electricity to merge and crackle.

"God, God, God – I'll, what do you want? I'll pay you."

Jessica snapped off the energy and shook her head. "What you will do," she said, "is pack – quickly – and then we're taking a cab to a train station, where I will buy you a one-way ticket to a town you've not yet heard of. You'll tell me what you _do_ know while we wait. You will call a number I'll give you every day at noon and tell me your where-abouts, so I can be certain the ninety-nine people I have watching you are all telling me the truth."

Packard's eyes showed she bought that last bit and it was all Drew could do to keep from laughing. Instead, she added, "And you won't come back until you hear from me."

"Why do I have to leave town?"

"Oh, time to make Mr. Lawson nervous, for one. And I'm fond of this city, hate to see you in it. Alternatively?" She pulled a single folded page from her jacket and handed it to the attorney. She let her read the laser-printed suicide note onto which Drew had made a pretty good facsimile of Packard's signature from a credit card application Jones had hacked.

"Christ," Sylviana exhaled.

"I forget," Drew said, snatching the page back. "How high up is the roof to this building, again?"

Packard stared. "What do you want to know?"


	10. Ep 10: AKA So You'd Be the Boyfriend?

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 10: AKA So You'd Be the Boyfriend?**

* * *

Jones wasn't surprised the wife didn't believe her. She sat quietly, her heel swiveling her chair back and forth, hands folded over her stomach, while the woman raved from the chair across her desk. She watched the wife leave – along with Jessica's check repaying her everything, "because it took me too long" (and it made for less hassle in a month with plenty to worry about but an unusually large bank account).

And she was genuinely sorry to realize the wife would spend the rest of her life doing a Camille Cosby impression – even after losing her own seven figure "associate pastor" slot with McSwizzlestick's mega-church. (The latest dodge to double the millions for the mega-church pastor, she'd learned in her research.)

She hadn't raised the Hoskins issue, dead certain the wife would know nothing and refuse to believe anything the evidence said anyway. It was only now, as she zipped together her notes, and the recording that McSwizzlestick made with her on the record, telling everything he knew ( _AKA everything he was willing to say until he's got a deal_ ) and pleading for a bargain, that she let herself smile about it.

She punched ENTER to "send" to Eddy Costa.

She stared at the screen. Pursed her lips; tapped her fingers 1-2-3-4 on the desk several times. Sighing, she bundled a second set of documents and photos into a zip file, everything she had or suspected regarding the disappearance of Rebecca and Mattie – minus any references at all to Jessica Drew. Her name didn't appear in the bundle at all. Jess didn't think twice about that – it was instinctive, leaving a powered sister running without eyes on her.

Jess had taken a photo of the corkboard behind her. When she'd come in, she'd seen where Mattie and Smithie had – on that afternoon she met Mattie – set out fragments of Rebecca Cross' life formed from photos, scraps of notes, odds and ends from the backpack she'd tasked them with cataloging. She zipped it in.

Her finger hovered, shaking slightly.

She remembered Costa telling her, "You did what you had to, Jones." Same attitude he'd had toward her, again and again. Maybe because he was a cop with a soul, he understood victims, understood even some perps; understood that pain or circumstances or some combination of both drove people to do those things for which they'd be objects of condescension or hate from those who never faced the same situation.

She'd never be friends with Costa. Their worlds were too different, but ….

 _Fuck it. Somebody takes me down, I need everyone I can get out there looking for those girls._

She pressed send. Closing her eyes, she breathed carefully as if expecting a cloud of ammonia, but she felt fine. Not so much as gray haze in her head, let alone purple.

Turning her chair around completely, she focused on the corkboard behind her where Mattie and Smithie had – it seemed like ages ago – set out fragments of Rebecca Cross' life formed from photos, scraps of notes, odds and ends from the backpack she'd tasked them with cataloging.

She recognized Smithie's meticulously well-ordered style in the logical flow of pictures and paper, tied together with colored string taken from Jess' desk. She leaned forward, the old creaking, and looked through a line of photographs taken up and down Main Street, Lago, New York.

 _Copy of her exhibit. I'm a fan._ Good composition, so nuanced and —

 _Holy fucking shit._

She scooted her chair closer, squinting at one in the middle. The shot missing from the official exhibit in the school closet.

A café with a small knot of people outside laughing, chatting. Among them: David Lawson, Chris Hoskins … Samuel Cross.

Smithie had simply placed the Main Street photos in the order one would have seen the sites pictured, walking up the sidewalk. The café photo had no particular significance – to Smithie. Jess leaned back, folding her palms over her tummy.

"You look intrigued."

She jolted up, bolting to her feet, and turned to see Jessica Drew standing in the hallway that led from the office to the living space.

"Jesus, get shot much?" Jones huffed.

Her counter-part chuckled in her usual, maddingly assured, honey-alto as she prowled into the office proper. She was in that "tac-casual gear for the busy PI who happens to climb buildings" outfit she favored. Soft boots, light weight black fatigues, ordinary white pullover just thick enough that only a pro like Jessica could make out the Kevlar jacket underneath - and she made it look good enough they should pay her a sponsorship.

"Spiders have a way of turning up in the oddest places," Drew admitted. She nodded. "So, what's with that one?" She pointed at the photo that had held Jones' attention, then arched an eyebrow as Jess kept silent. "Jones, remember the deal? You don't want a partner fine, but let's pool that info, lady."

Jones shuffled, scowling, then plopped back in her chair and explained who she was looking at.

"Samuel Cross. The man who _hired_ you to find Rebecca?"

Jones glowered at the photo. "Yeah. AKA, the guy who's about to lose some teeth."

Drew looked at the picture intently, then hesitated as if she surely must be missing something, "I don't see Cross."

Jones pointed, growsing a bit – she'd circled Cross, Lawson, and Hoskins in red with their names atop each one. "Right there. He's the asshat with the - wait – what?" She turned and looked up at her. "You _know_ Samuel Cross?"

"No." Drew pulled the backpack up to the desk and dug into it. "But I was here a bit earlier, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I went through the 'file'."

"Or you didn't care if I minded but you went through it my papers anyway."

"Yes, well, spiders do that." She pulled out a couple of photos. "Right, then. Rebecca's mom and dad, I presume?" She laid one on the desk.

Jones looked at it. "Younger. Never saw him, but going by her? That's from maybe ten, twelve years ago. Looks like happier days."

"And then there's this," she handed Jess a photo with the back facing her. On that was scrawled, "Happy 7th B-day! I carry your pic with me everywhere! See! / Uncle Sam". Jessica turned the picture over to see a shot taken in some Near Eastern mountain setting. A handful of Marines surrounded an officer who was grinning, holding up a photograph of a young girl, doubtless Rebecca.

Jessica didn't have to look back at the picture on the cork board.

There simply was no resemblance at all.

A violet gel held her eyes on the grinning Marine as she wondered what happened to the real Samuel Cross and who that was standing on … _Main Street. Fucking figures. Well, what the hell? Birch Street … Higgins Drive._

"So …." Drew said gently, her sass dropped as she scanned Jones' stricken face. "So, I dare say the gentleman on Main Street there with Lawson and Hoskins isn't Samuel Cross?"

"No," Jessica said. She tapped one of the other Marines with her blunt fingernail. "But this asshole?"

"Yes!" Drew said crisply, pointing at the old photo to the three men circled in the Main Street picture. "That would indeed be David Lawson. I noticed."

"Cobalt Lane," Jess muttered. "So, the deal was – pool resources, share knowledge. Your turn."

"Quite right," Drew nodded. She began pacing, and then ran through all she'd learned in quizzing David Lieberman and Sylvia Packard after handing her the micro-recorder so she could load the audio into her files. Jones was relieved to hear Mattie was getting "anything she wanted" (apart from being set free), remarking, "That's a lotta protein shakes, I bet."

"And then," Drew said lightly, pulling her cell phone, "there's this." Drew held up her phone, flipping on a recorded radio program with Reverend Hoskins debating with a woman about the "demon spawn, the Nephilim."

" _And now – last night at this so-called 'Excelsior Club' - they were calling for this Daredevil to arise," the Reverend offered in dulcet tone. "What does it say to you that these creatures call upon the Devil for salvation?"_

" _What does it say of your version of God," she replied, "that they feel they need the Devil for salvation?"_

" _They turn from the truth," he went on, "and you blame that on the faithful? A reckoning will come. It has begun already, where Heaven's Kitchen will be born from the ashes -"_

Drew flipped the track off and stared at Jess.

"What?" Jones flung her arms wide. "What? What do you want from me, here, Drew? I'm not just sitting on my ass." She slapped her computer. "I just handled Hoskins and he's doesn't even know it yet." Ignoring Drew's intrigued look, she added, "But I can't save the world."

"How about just Hell's Kitchen?"

"What am I?" Jones snorted. "Daredevil? Trust me. I saw him in action. I knew him. And I'm not – him."

Her remark about Daredevil seemed to strike a nerve. The other woman turned away a moment, visibly shaken, then looked back. "I'm not asking for anyone to replace him," she said quietly.

"Then what?"

"Open your bloody eyes! They are coming after us. All of us. And I need you to work with me to stop it."

"You want me to trust you?"

"Didn't say trust. Said work with."

Jones stared at her, blank face, searching her eyes. "Fine. Work with."

"Fine."

"Fine. So, what were you doing on the rooftops while I talked to Richie Rich and Wonderboy?"

"Ah!" Drew laughed with that liquid smoke she'd perfected. "Thought Smithie caught me. I was tracking a five man kill squad doing a practice run on you. Did Smithie happen to catch that?"

Jones' stomach iced over. "Me?"

"Well, they may've have been targeting the chap selling slices out of a cart a half-block down, but they left right after you did, so …" she shrugged. Sighed. Her flippancy melted. "Trust me. Don't trust me. But some of this we've got to work together, just for numbers sake."

Jones sat through three long breaths.

"You were Hydra." She yanked open a desk drawer, shoving aside her collection photos of the production side of the DCEU, wistfully recalling the precious handful of days when she had nothing to do but kill time on that research for practice. She pulled out Hudson Manhattan Rye in its distinctive stubby, round bottle and took three full gulps, staring hard at the "spider."

"So were my parents. You can't choose your family. Until you can, anyway, and then you gotta choose who to trust." Drew braced her fists on her hips. "So, I'm ready to spill if you are. Soul for soul. Torture for torture. The full story. You can sit and drink alone or we can get this out of the way so we can go find our girls."

Jones slid the bottle over the desk toward Drew.

A smile sparked, then glowed on the spider's face.

"But just we're clear?" Jones pointed. "Whatever else happens, you are _not_ my partner."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Drew said, spinning the cap free again slowly between an elegant forefinger and her thumb. She tilted the bottle, her throat flexing as she slipped two swallows down. Capping the bourbon, she winked. "I'm starting to like you, too, Jones."

"Because you don't know me." With an almost sadistic gleam in her eye, Jones leaned back. "So let me start from the beginning. Like … the very beginning."

* * *

They had talked for hours.

They had wound up at Josie's, inevitably, and were down to telling each other bar-brawl jokes to test if the other knew them. Wrong answers meant a round of drinks. Two rounds for right ones.

"Okay, okay, okay," Jones slapped lightly at the bar. "What's a sucker punch?"

"Anything with a fist," Drew said. "And the puncher is the sucker."

They drank to it twice.

"Good way to break your fingers," Jones ran the smooth glass over her forehead.

"Yeah, snapped my wrist once," the former Spider-Woman frowned, looking at her forearm. "I mean, Skrull skulls can shift to a pretty hard shell. But it got better."

"You heal fast, too?"

"Yeah," Drew sighed. "Not _always_ a blessing."

"So, when I called, you were in Chicago?" Jessica said. "I thought you were strictly Bay Area."

Drew rolled her eyes. "You still don't trust me?"

"Well …." Jones drawled, swiveling her glass between her palms. "You _were_ Hydra." But by now that had become a punchline for them.

"I was in Chicago working the Red Hampton case," Drew said. "He was eighteen, new to his powers, went by 'Red Wire,' had an –" she waggled her fingers. "Electricity thing."

"Sounds familiar," Jones said dryly.

Drew chuckled. "Well, Red wasn't spidey, but electricity _is_ a spider thing. Darwin spotted it sailing on the Beagle a century ago. Spiders would fly in and land when they were well at sea – then rise up and sail off. Everyone thought they were sailing on silk – hell, I sail on webbing I made along the jacket I wear – but now they think it's more a matter of their ability to sense and manipulate electrostatic charges in the air." She paused, then took another healthy swallow of whiskey. "Maybe I do that, too, controlling my flight."

Jones said nothing. Drew was droning on – avoiding something. Silence fell, and she sighed.

"Anyway," Drew said. "Hampton – Red Wire – was gunned down in an alley by some cops. They said he pulled a gun on them. Thing is, he'd never carried a gun. Never owned one. Everyone who knew him was shocked. I was trying to get the lid peeled back when – this happened."

Jones held her glass forehead high, staring into the whiskey – easy to do as she was leaning over the bar, shoulders slumped. "Hey? We'll find Mattie. She's tough, she's a smart kid, she'll stay alive and we'll find her."

"I obviously should have taught her about more things than pheromones and protein shakes."

Jones laughed, a little too loudly, eager to encourage a slight lift in mood. "Wait, that was you? That kid's all about protein shakes."

"And sewing," Drew said, refilling her glass from the bottle Josie had left them. "Which is good, in this business, we need a hobby. You have a hobby, yes?" She lifted the bottle, eyeing the amount left.

"Yeah," Jones replied. "You're looking at it. Okay, sewing, fine, but what's up with the protein shakes?"

"Well," Drew answered slyly, trailing condensation along the bar's wooden surface, "if you think about what and how spiders eat, especially the how? And, well, she's a growing spider, she just came into her powers."

Jess did think, got it, and then made a face that caused Drew to laugh.

"Well, that sucks," Jones said. Both women leaned over the bar in drunken laughter. "Literally." Jones shoved herself up unsteadily. "Okay. Okay. And the pheromones?"

"Yeah, it's – this thing we do. Drives men crazy, drives other females away."

"Mating chemicals, basically?"

"Artifact of evolution," Drew nodded while sipping more bourbon, then chuckled. "We still have bit of lizard brain, and lizard brain evolution is about procreation more than love. Which anyone who's seen two geckos humping could tell you. Our spidey pheromones can be a bitch if you're gay. She had boys all over her – wasn't interested. And meanwhile the same chemicals were knocking back every crush she ever had. Poor girl didn't know why, until I explained it, and taught her to control projecting those nasty pheromones."

"And then she met my gal?"

"Rebecca? Yes." Drew smiled. "Mattie texted with me just two weeks later about meeting her. Four weeks later they were seeing each other, texting, Skype, all that. A lot."

Jess smiled. "That's …. You got anybody?

Drew's face clouded. "Did. He was killed, not long ago."

"Oh, my God! I'm –"

"No way you could know." After three long awkward moments, Drew went for the obvious out and Jones went along. "You have anyone?"

"Well," Jones tossed her head back and forth. "Define have? There's a guy but … I wouldn't say he's my boyfriend."

"What are you waiting for?" Drew said. "You're not getting any taller, you know."

"You're not getting any smarter," Jones retorted. "Harder you push me straight at somebody, the farther I stumble back."

"Ah," she laughed. "You want subtlety? Didn't see that in you, Jones." Drew stared at her, then smiled and looked back into the long mirror behind the bottles. "So, if I was to find the man for you, I'd have to slide him at you a bit sideways?"

Jones choke-laughed on her drink. "Yeah, and pray I never realized you did it."

Drew raised her glass. "We are getting our girls back together, you know. Safe and sound."

Jones answered Drew's raised glass with a _clink_.

"Yeah," she said. "Got an idea on that, but it'll have to be a solo run."

* * *

Brett Mahoney would forever congratulate himself that he didn't jump when Jessica fell. The fact was impressive in that Jones fell several stories to land on her feet just past his arm's reach in the alley. Maybe, he'd concede, a little less impressive since he'd known she was coming.

He didn't bother turning around. "Well, you said pick an alley and you'd find me, so I gotta give you that. But why couldn't we do the whole thing over the phone? And why not your buddy Costa?"

"Hoping if they have your calls under surveillance," Jess said, stepping up beside him, "it's recorded, not real time, so they wouldn't scramble a covert surveillance team in time to follow you. Figure they got Eddy on real time watch."

Now he faced her. "Don't know who 'they' are."

She flashed an intentionally fake smile. "Yeah, I'm kinda thinking you do," she answered mildly. "But I'm gambling you're still a Costa-type cop, maybe even wanting to do something about the 'they'. I just need one thing, Mahoney. One small thing. Check into it, if I'm right, tell me, and give me one perfectly innocuous piece of information."

"Why the hell would I do any of that? Maybe you're with 'they'?"

"Costa trusts me. You trust Costa. A little third-hand love for the set?" He started to walk out of the alley but stopped when Jones added, "Two girls might die soon."

"Franklin," he sighed, turning back toward her again. "And Cross. We're on it."

"Yeah. And the success the Department's having makes the mind reel."

"Some of us do care!" he snapped, stepping toward her hard, until he was in her face. "I fucking care!" He sniffed. "Are you drunk?"

Taken aback at his heat, Jessica simply raised her eyebrows and ignored the last question. "I believe you. But I don't know why."

He sighed, palmed over his hips, staring at the pavement. "Word is Franklin is Spider-Woman, right? The new one?"

"If you say so."

"My cousin, she's a rookie on the force. Got cross-ways of some Broad Day Shooters in an alley, stupid rookie mistake, and that Spider-Woman girl happened to be there. Saved her ass. Then I heard Cross is her girlfriend. So – yeah, I been pushing, but like every good cop around here, the clique in the bag for Keaton has all of that locked down tight."

"Okay." She shifted on her feet, head bobbing a bit. "You know I can do things … extra."

Mahoney ran a thumb over his chin, then muttered. "What do you want?"

"Somewhere in your Department," she said, "someone has been spending a shitload of discretionary funds buying protein shakes. Probably by the case. If I'm wrong, then we're done. If I'm right … tell me where they're being delivered."

* * *

 _Clink_.

 _Clank_.

Jones scuffed her boots to a stop, turning at the sound of chain … several chains rattling together. She heard firm wood slapping a palm. Slipping her hands from her jacket pockets, she took careful side steps back down her hallway toward the elevator, stopping as five Watchdogs in full regalia swung from around the corner leading to the stairs.

One swung heavy chains lazily back and forth. Two were bouncing baseball bats off their palms. "So this really is your home sweet home, freak? Looks like Alec Johnson was right again."

She sighed, holding up a palm. "Look, guys, I just wanna get some sleep. You think I can't take you?"

The man in the middle spoke, possibly since he carried the biggest bat. "Oh, we know you could, freak," he stepped closer. "But the way we see it, you can't do shit right now. You see the news? Murder, kidnapping – God knows what other charges they're thinking about dropping on that cute ass of yours. They just need a little shove."

She rolled her head around and then glared back at them. "Seriously, assholes, you don't want to be doing this."

"You don't have shit to say about it," he said, as his posse spread out around her. "Who do you think people gonna believe, whatever –" he licked his lips. "Whatever goes down here, right now? You got that – what is that they call it, again Pete?"

"PTSD."

"Right, PTSD. Poor crazy little freak. So, you think they're gonna believe, freaky ass bitch? Hell, half of 'em be happy to know you got some street justice smacked on your ass." He smacked his bat hard against his palm. "Thinking this is the right time to take that fine ass down a peg, bitch. Once we tune it up."

 _They're riiiiight, Kilgrave was hissing in her ear. You can't fight this, Jessica. You do and you're going to jail for sure, at least long enough that Rebecca and Mattie will never be coming out of whatever hell hole your stupidity has landed them in._

She turned her head to answer the illusion, and it was then the leader swung. Though she caught it in her right palm, and he grunted with surprise and the pain of the sudden stop, another bat was heading straight for her rib-cage, a doubled-up line of chain at her head, all while Kilgrave laughed, _Go on, then, Jess, fight! Leave Rebecca and Mattie for dead!_

The chains had wrapped around her out-flung left palm but the bat to the rib cage doubled her over. And in the midst of Kilgrave hooting, the Watchdogs laughing, the distraction of one tugging at her jeans even while others worked over her ribs, her back, and the back of her legs, with boots, bats, and chains. Her actions became wild, unfocused, her aim blurred, as she screamed in pain, in fury, in fear.

And smelled an arc of electricity split the air.

Then a second.

The 'Dogs backed off of her, turning to their right, and as she scooted back on the floor, she looked up to see a sharp-dressed man standing firm in his apartment doorway, aiming some sort of military-grade shock gun in his left hand just as the Watchdog leader jumped back up heading for the man's right.

"Nuh-uh," Malcolm Ducasse said, pointing a snub-nosed revolver at the leader's face, stopping him in mid-move. He cocked it. "Yeah, benefits of my new license and employment."

Nobody moved after that.

"This is how it is," Malcolm said. "I just called the cops, but I'll leave it up to you whether to stick around and listen to me tell 'em what I heard." He tilted his head up to the security camera over his door. "And recorded."

The 'Dogs exchanged glances, then began a sullen sulk-walk to the elevator. "Fucking freak-lover," one muttered. When the door closed, Malcolm went over to help her to her feet.

"Thanks," she muttered.

He shrugged. "Actually, didn't know if you'd want the cops called or not," he said, "what with all the shit's been going on. Up to you. I'll get 'em down here, tell 'em what happened if you want. Figured you'd want to think about that."

He glanced back, his hand going to her arm to still her when she jerked at the sound of boots running down the stairs off the side.

"I did call Oscar," he told her. Turning away, he walked back to his apartment. "Figured you didn't want me."

"Hey," she called out softly. He turned. "Hope things are … you know."

He nodded and went back inside.

Oscar came around the corner, ran to her, and half-carried her as she limped into her place. She collapsed on the couch, mirthlessly laughing to note that the wrapping tape was still there from a job she'd done a month earlier. She slipped her jacket off, wincing, then groaned getting her tee-shirt off with Oscar's help.

He sat on the arm of the couch as she wound the tape tight around her abdomen from her tummy to her bra, watching her down a three shots of Cutty Sark in the process. "What happened?"

She shrugged and winced. "Dunno. Maybe a rib or two busted. Kidneys bruised. You know me, it heals fast."

"No, I mean who did this – this time?"

"Oh." She finished the wrap and started to pick up her tee-shirt, but left it, feeling comfortable with Oscar there. She took another hit off the bottle. "Usual bullshit. Watchdogs. I'm fine."

He fussed over a cut on her cheek from errant chain links. "Christ, Jess, let me call Claire."

She hesitated, remembering the tension she'd sensed in the Luke Cage-Claire Temple apartment. "She's … out of town."

"Well, there's gotta be somebody. Isn't there anybody else you guys use?"

"Us _guys?"_ she said wryly, looking up at him. "You mean us street freaks?" But there was no malice in his eyes and she couldn't bring herself to pretend there was, although taking offense might have boosted her adrenaline and helped with the pain.

"I'm calling 911," he said, eyeing her tape job with suspicion.

"No, you're not. You're not because I don't want you to." She started to stand, but her left leg folded, and she fell back on the couch. She winced as she stretched to the coffee table instead, reaching for the whiskey.

"Hey?" Oscar walked over, gently taking the bottle from her and capping it.

She glared at him. "This discussion, again?"

"Just saying take it easy for a minute. What's with the leg?"

She shrugged, leaning back into the couch, arms folded. "Nothing broken. Bad bruise, I expect."

"Bad bruise," he sighed. "Come on, you need to lay down." He asked if she wanted the shirt, which she didn't, and then offered to carry to her bed, which she allowed.

It was when he started to move away that she became active again, grabbing his hand.

"I'm staying," he told her. "Just going to get a chair."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Another night with Jessica Jones. What, my mattress too hard for you?"

He hesitated, then slid carefully beside her, taking her in his arms as lightly as if she was made of crepe paper.

She rolled her eyes. "Oscar? I won't break. Remember the other night? We practically wrecked this bed and I was fine." She tossed her head side to side, considering. "Pleasantly sore, but in a happy little can't-wait-to-fuck-him-again way."

With the booze in the next room, and violet fog forming in her head, she desperately wanted the escape of pure sensation. She kissed him, working his mouth hard with hers, then pulled back, repeating, "I won't break."

"No, but you can hurt," he said. "You get hurt a lot." He nuzzled her hair. "Just tell me how to take care of somebody banged up like this when they're somebody like you," he said. "Gifted. Powered. Whatever."

Jess sighed. "Okay, you know, look, here's the thing. I may be a little bit stomped out right now, but you're still talking to me, okay? I don't need coddling."

Oscar grunted. "You know how Vido calls you 'pretty lady'? It's so funny watching your face. You want to roll your eyes at it, but you don't because you don't want to hurt my kid's feelings. It's like your face hurts but you let it hurt so you don't disappoint him." He shifted, trailing a finger along her chin. "You're prettier than you think you are. And you're a better person than you think you are."

She gripped his wrist firmly, pulling his fingertip to her lips. She kissed it, then drew his finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, before pulling his hand away.

"I know who and what I am, Oscar. Vido thinks I'm a hero. But I'm just trying to survive, here."

"Thanks for letting him see what he needs to see." He sighed, leaning down, brushing her lips feather light over hers. "But I don't need you to be a hero. I want you to be safe. And maybe, someday, happy?" He smiled. "Maybe?"

She closed her eyes, rolling her body against his, one leg over his thigh. "I need to sleep," she said, then kissed him hard. "But I don't want to."

"I'll be right here when you wake up." He brushed her face with his fingertips, then pulled her head against his shoulder, his fingers squeezing the back of her head with a firm, steady rhythm. He kept his breathing steady against her, through the little jerks and twists that accompanied drunk sleep, at one point running the line of sweat off her brow with his thumb.

Eventually, he fell asleep himself. He wasn't surprised when he woke up before her. But he was surprised to find a long-haired brunette who radiated lethality staring at him from the chair she'd drawn up by the bed.

"You'd be the boyfriend?" she asked dryly. She raised her hand, and a weird dance of electricity and light spun around her fingers as she toyed with it. "Either that, or this will get unpleasant very fast."

"Jess," he said, shaking Jones' shoulder. "Somebody's kind of snuck into your apartment right now."

Jessica turned her head, staring with one bleary eye before she said. "Yeah. That's Jessica Drew." She yawned. "She does that." She buried her face in a pillow. "Somebody wanna turn out the floodlight?"

"My name's Oscar," he said.

Jones' voice was muffled. "And he's not my boyfriend."

Drew arched an eyebrow, staring at Oscar.

He smiled. "She does that."

Jess smiled into her pillow.

* * *

Oscar went to pick up Vido from visitation with his ex-wife while the Jessicas decamped around the desk. Jones tried but failed to be irritated by Drew's constant long-eye side-glances every time she moved, her protective vibe apparent as she made sure Jess' super-healing was properly in gear on the ribs, face, legs, and whatever else the 'Dogs had battered.

It was her pride that Drew seemed most determined to build back fast – and a little too obviously. She cooed over the file Jones had compiled, flipping through it, yet it was the Frisco PI who finally found the link that had rattled loose through Hell Kitchen's head for so long.

"The address," Drew said idly. "The one you've marked here, the run sheet on Lawson's day that you picked up with the plant."

Jones was tapping angrily on her keyboard, running through pictures of Watchdog rallies, scanning faces, trying to spot one or more of the men who'd "visited" her the previous night. "Um-hmmm?"

"You put a question mark by it."

"Right. No idea what that visit was about."

"Well … you always say start at the beginning, so I did." Drew picked up a slender stack of paper from the desk. "This contract with Samuel Cross, the one you and he agreed in writing. Back at Josie's, the day you met?"

Jones tilted her head up, vision tunneling. "Yeah?"

"It's his address." She turned over the contract to face her. "Lawson was visiting the building where Mr. Cross lives."

Jones went back in her chair with exquisite lag. "Mother –"

The shot was close enough to clip Drew's hair and send her spinning to the floor. A _crack_ sounded outside immediately after, as Jones skated on her hip over the desk, dropping to all fours, staring wildly at her fallen counter-part. She fussed with her hair, seeing a bruise swelling around a shallow slash at the temple but no entry point.

"Jessica, you goddamn spider, damn it, don't-don't-don't be - damn it Jess –"

Drew's eyes came back into focus. "I'm okay," she answered, detached, almost child-like with wonder, pulling Jess' fingers away from her temple. "Just missed me."

Jones' eyes flared. "Well, I'm not missing _them_."

Drew flailed, trying to stop her, but the concussion of the high velocity blast kissing her skull had her dizzy. She fell, then pulled herself over the floor toward the window.

Jones had jumped high, scanning furiously, until she saw fembot Hill wave at her from the rope ladder she was taking into an unmarked hovering helicopter. An NYPD chopper sailed past it, heading toward Jessica's office window.

Drew pushed up, fell, crawled toward the window as something howled up beside it, then shoving herself to her feet again. An NYPD officer sitting in tac gear stared at her through the scope of an M4 rifle aimed through an open door, chopper blades whirling above.

By then Jess was trying to control her fall. She realized her impulsive leap had sent her spiraling through a predictable arc she couldn't quite correct. Ledges, landings, loose awnings – she bounced from one to the other on the way down, smashing into the concrete of an alley where she lay, panting with pain from freshly throbbing ribs.

Tires. Rolling slowly past. A stop. Backing up.

Jessica shoved herself to her boots, unsteady, vision blurred.

A white van.

Her "friend" from the parking garage kidnapping, One-Eye McCoy, slipped out of the front passenger's seat, grinning.

"You want Mattie Franklin?" He rapped the side of the van. "Get her."

"Get ready," Jess growled, sway-stomping his way when three gunshots from behind her filled the alleyway, deafening her for a moment. Three holes had opened on the side of the van while Jessica threw herself back against the alley wall, looking to see a central casting version of a PTA maven walked into the alley, smirking.

"What the fu—"

"Language, young lady," Mrs. PTA-and-lace shook her finger, then pulled the clear surgical glove off it. Her other hand tossed a smallish pistol down, letting it clatter toward Jessica's feet. She took off that glove, stuffing both in a sensibly plain purse along with a plastic baggie that might have held the gun. Jess looked down at it: a Lorcin .380.

Jessica turned. The van was gone, and Mrs. PTA was walking to where it had sat. Jones got one blink in, mind spinning, aware vaguely of helicopter rotor blades chopping the air nearby.

PTA hit her mark primly, turned, cleared her throat with a dainty fist at her mouth, and began screaming bloody murder.

From around the corner, walking around PTA and stepping carefully toward Jess, came four uniformed officers. Jessica heard one of the cops burring into his shoulder mike, "10-34," while another simultaneously requested backup, shouting into his own mike, "10-13, shots fired."

"Fuck me," Jessica said.

"I don't care for that kind of language," the woman told her primly, pulling a whistle from her trousers. "Let's be professional about this, dear."

"Fuck you."

"Language, please!" she hissed.

"Look, Miss Manners -"

The woman's smile went gut-twistingly gleeful, a sadist in her heaven. She raised the whistle toward her mouth as she said, "Oh, I'm just a concerned citizen, Miss Jones. Here to raise the alarm."

The concerned citizen blew the whistle loud enough to release the work force of a distant factory. For show, Jessica realized – for anyone nearby to later recall a terrified woman calling out for help in a way that accounted for a rapid police response. Jess slapped it from her hand. Nobody would unjumble the time line.

Citizen lady started screaming, wailing with Tony nominee realism, "She's trying to kill me!"

Jessica had turned, heading toward the end of the alley. A patrol car squealed to a stop there, a cop rolling out of the passenger door with his gun at the ready, shouting at her to get on her knees.

"Fuck it." She got three steps in headed the other way when a patrol car pulled up there as well, causing her to stumble against a huge and heavy trash container. "Fuck the world. And fuck this!"

"Jessica Jones," Miss Manners shook her head. "Can you just _stop_ saying the word _fuck?"_

"What are you – Netflix?"

A third car squealed to a stop. "Jesus, is there anybody left for speeders?" Two officers crab walked fast down the alley, shouting, guns shaking in their hands.

Miss Manners shook her head, folding her arms. "Well, they'll shut up that mouth for you soon enough, freak. You'll finally learn that's something freaks can do."

"Yeah?" Jess turned and smiled. "Let me show you something else freaks can do."

She made as if to jump, so the shots arched over her head when she stopped well short, simply grapping the lip of the container's opening.

She whirled it, spinning it hard toward the cops at one end, who scattered as the giant metal bin slammed from wall to wall while she spun to her feet.

Then she jumped.

It wasn't so much the physical act of evasion that saved her from the guns of those who hadn't scattered. It was the psychological effect – what she had counted on, having seen it before – that froze everyone else as she launched into the air.

Even if one, some, or all of them knew Jessica Jones could jump-fly, actually seeing a slightly built woman in street clothes take to the air like that held back any shots, even any shouts, as she scuffed over the roof, rolled hard onto her shoulder, then ran, jumping again, reaching the next rooftop.

 _Later, fuckers._


	11. Ep 11: AKA Show Me This Grave

**JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 11: AKA Show Me This Grave**

* * *

David Lawson stared off the berm down at the Hudson, resettling the computer bag slung over his shoulder. "She got away. Like that. Half a goddamn precinct milling around like goats in a pen on the block and she … just …. All right. We still got the spider girl on ice, right?"

"Friendlies with the force got Franklin in a safe house. They know the OPORD from this point."

"And meanwhile somebody somewhere has Sylviana Packard. Packard's got half my logistics in her head. I don't know who knows what about us at this point. Lukin's off on what sounds like a very long business trip in Russia. And Jones is in the fucking wind." Lawson turned and jammed his finger at the chest of the shorter, but stouter subordinate. "All right. Mattie Franklin. Dope that little guppy to the gills. I don't care what it takes."

He began pacing back and forth. "Keep up the total disorientation, day when it should be night, night when it should be day, amp up the dope in her air conditioning, anything that doesn't leave marks. Gitmo her into buying everything they tell her so we can set her loose to wreak havoc in the next twenty-four hours and then let Keaton crucify her in court. As for Jones, if they find her, be sure Jackie and her crew knife her into the next world within six hours of lock up."

"Sir." O'Malley answered, a curt acknowledgement of the order. But he added, "Permission to speak freely?"

Lawson nodded, once again struck by how high-pitched Gunny's voice was given his linebacker build – it was actually an almost sweet voice, with a little whistle chasing after "s" and "c" sounds.

"Sir, this comes out, it'll come out bad for us. Mattie Franklin is … she's just a kid, sir. She's twenty."

Lawson sighed. "So was Zack Simmons at Kunar, if you recall. Jefferson, Miller, they were nineteen. Frankly, few people care anymore about fucking up kids' lives now, as long as it's not their kids. Hell, if they're the right kind of kids, people make excuses to make it happen. We'll be fine."

* * *

[ Diane Cummings – Voice Over:]

… _issued an arrest warrant for powered private investigator Jessica Campbell Jones for the murder of Miranda Pritchett, a college student believed to have been caught up in the powered community's drug trade, based on surveillance video and other clues including the fact that a gun – a Lorcin .380, I'm told – was found on the scene where she resisted arrest after firing several shots and trying to take a hostage. Now, those shots went wild so it's not certain it's the same weapon she fired then. But it has been tested and found to be the same weapon used to kill Ms. Pritchett._

 _And that gun – police sources state – has Jessica Jones' fingerprints all over it._

 _Meanwhile, a second warrant has issued for Jessica Jones in the disappearance of Mattie Franklin, another young woman with ties to the so-called "street powered" community, in a case with city-wide implications._

 _Sources tell me that ADA Keaton had been working feverishly behind the scenes to save the proposed "stand-down" arrangement tentatively worked out through Mattie Franklin that would have brought peace between the so-called "street powered" and those patriotic groups who have confronted them recently._

 _Now, you'll recall Ms. Franklin was abducted during a clandestine meeting – caught on video and brought to you exclusively by this station – with Jessica Jones – as we said, now a fugitive on that and on a warrant for the murder of another young woman – and Ms. Franklin's whereabouts are unknown. ADA Keaton today announced a reward for anyone with credible information on her whereabouts. He went on to say his thoughts and prayers were with her._

 _Meanwhile, Steven Keaton has established a working group to deal with the weapons and drugs circulating in the powered community and I'm told the Avengers are working with him on that._

 _And in a related story, Senator Stan Ori is rumored to be considering an early – and surprising – endorsement of Steve Keaton in his mayoral bid, reaching across party lines in view of Mayor – I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Keaton's efforts against gun violence in our city, and his efforts to bring peace to our streets._

 _Reporting exclusively, for WFRT TV News, this is Diane Cummings._

 _Now, with an update on that odd theft of saber-tooth tiger exhibits and information, we go to Mike Moore._

* * *

The passenger side window slid down with a quiet whine. "Get in."

Jessica slowed her step, readying to fight or flee, but pretended she didn't hear the woman, even if her murmur sounded familiar. Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard had plenty of foot traffic to get lost in fast, but that voice sounded like -

Misty Knight cleared her throat and spoke again. "There's only one white woman in a hoodie in all of Harlem. I mean, you're rocking that thing as always, Jessica, but damn it, get in the car."

Jess stopped a breath, then slipped quickly inside the police detective's sedan. She glanced behind them, and back to the sidewalk, as Misty answered a honk at her rear bumper and started moving. "How'd you find me?"

Knight scoffed. "Please. It's Harlem. I'm me. I knew you were here by the third step those infamous boots of yours put down."

"Well, that's comforting," Jessica muttered. She leaned back as traffic stopped for a delivery up ahead. When she opened her eyes again, Misty was staring at her with concern. "Fuck happened with Luke and Claire? They broke up?"

"Things have been blowing up in Harlem," Misty said. "Them included. You, by the way, look like hell."

"It's the eyes," Jess snarked flatly. "Can't find my brand of liner in Harlem to save my soul. So, what are we doing, anyway? You got the warrants with you? Or is this one of those let's-take-Freddo-fishing rides? Or are you just hard up for scintillating conversation?"

"I'm on leave and totally unaware of this 'warrant' of which you speak, Ms. Jones," Knight chuckled. She took a left on West 135th, managing well despite the arm she in the showdown at Midland Circle, going past the Thurgood Marshal Academy while Jessica fidgeted. "But say hypothetically one is out there. That's not the end of the story. I'm here because Eddy Costa can't be seen with you right. Not if he's going to be able to help you. And he's got reason to, now."

"Meaning he got the files I sent." Jessica nodded. But her voice was flat, and tired. "So he's got the information he needs. Message received. I assume I'm done now?"

Misty pulled into a parking slot facing toward the line of buildings on the street and stared back at her for several heart beats. "Some people you don't throw away, Jones."

Jessica shrugged, slumping down in her seat.

Silence.

"You doing okay, Jessica? Okay – dumb question." The detective sighed. "Look, about the warrants –"

"I'm trying to _find_ Mattie! I didn't hurt her. Other than being a dumb bitch who should have warned her to stay away from me for her own good. And by the way, anybody at all bothered that Rebecca Cross still hasn't turned up?"

"Harlem's flaring up and I've lost track of the rest of the city." She looked back at her. "Look, just don't give up or … well, you know."

Jess nodded. "Or lose my shit. Blow up. Because if I'm chill I _might_ not get 'shot trying to escape.' But once I'm inside? You don't think whoever the _They_ are in this shitstorm, they don't have a heavy crew in there ready to see to it I take a shard of glass to the juggular in the middle of a 'spontaneous' jail riot?"

"We'll do whatever we can to protect you. Eddy says you've got good stuff in that file, even better than you may know. Plugs in to something he's working – a lot of people are working – and if you could just lay low for a bit -"

"No. I can't just hide in a basement. Not until those two girls are found and safe."

Misty sighed. "Okay. Fair enough. Just know something about that file you sent flipped a switch and help's on the way. Can I drop you somewhere?"

Jessica's laugh was short, explosive, harsh. She twisted her head once as she opened the door. "I have no place to go."

* * *

"So, this is what we fought for," Dinah Madani muttered, staring out her window in the back of a government issued Cadillac DTS at the herd of Phineas Faithful Dominionist protestors around the front of the Excelsior screaming at Evangelical Sermon on the Mount Association counter-protestors chanting back.

Pock-marks from a .50 caliber drive-by the previous night marked the wall, one having gone through a poster looking for a missing girl. She shook her head. "All the shit that went down over there, and we come back to a country hung up on bullshit while ignoring its actual problems."

She turned and looked with distaste at the limo. Agent Madani did not like limos.

She didn't like any of the trappings of power or of wealth. She'd grown up privileged enough – a doctor dad and shrink mom provided well – but in an Iranian immigrant family it was never forgotten how quickly fate could be reversed. And she'd grown up seeing that the advantages her school mates assumed they deserved were just a happenstance of fate. She didn't want that level of delusion ever blinding her to the dangers around her.

The man seated beside her told the driver to move on – the brief stop was enough. As the boat of a car moved back into traffic, he turned back and said. "First off, as you know, my agency isn't involved in this clusterfuck in any way. But you made the call to the Director and she acted on it as a personal favor, unofficially." He peered at her closely. "She seems to like you. Better yet, she seems a bit afraid of you."

Madani stared back just long enough to be sure Quartermain was only sizing her up, not ogling her – she got plenty of both looks and knew them well enough to tell. "So, just cut to the chase."

"So, the deal is simple. This situation is boiling out of hand. The Director has the clout on the Hill to make sure your security clearance, your task force – everything stays in place. And she'll use it. But she needs something in return."

"You're saying POTUS pulls back, doesn't take calls from the people backing Keaton, right, Quartermain?"

"Call me Clay, please. What I'm saying is that POTUS will remain properly neutral in what is purely a law enforcement matter," the man answered, as if reading prepared testimony for Congress.

She glanced back with an unspoken: "And?"

"This investigation needs closure. Not next month. Not next week. Get what you can get, wind it down, and hand us a hero. Now."

She thought. "It won't be Keaton."

He laughed. "We don't give a shit about Keaton. We just need this over with."

She thought harder. "Okay. It's all in place – if you've gotten matters expedited as to Nelson as I asked?"

Quarterman nodded. "Did and done, and I hear all the other paperwork is done. Get him in front of judge and he's done."

A block passed before she nodded.

She put her cell phone to her ear. "Eddy? We're punching through. Give it to Cummings' ambitious little dickish friend at the precinct, that Evans bitch. She wants her name in the papers. She's dying to get Jones. She'll jump on this. Just be sure our next step is ready to go before you hand it over. You know the plan from there."

Punching the call out, she sat at the uncomfortable edge of the seat all the way to the underground garage leading up to her office, refusing to lean in to the cushions behind her.

* * *

They underestimated her.

They underestimated her powers, certainly her body's resilience, and by God they didn't have a clue about her inner strength.

The meals came and went. Mattie focused, she pushed, she kept her will alive, even though whatever the kidnappers shot into her arm seemed to keep draining her. The moments, the conversations, jumbled into a mash in her memory.

"Jones has no clue where this place is," one cop said. "We're tracking her. We'll get her. One way or the other."

"Why would Jessica Jones have me kidnapped?"

They never had a real answer for that – just a shrug. "She's sick, kid. She's twisted. Investigation is ongoing."

And always there was a reminder that the cops had stopped the van ten minutes after she was taken. Ten cops, guns out, yanking "Jessica's team" out to their knees, cuffing them.

"We'll keep you safe." They even made sure to keep plenty of protein shakes on hand. It was the only food they gave her that didn't taste a bit – off. Funny. Strange.

She could sit up but not move far. Still, her will keep waxing strong and her mind refused to bend and bow to their story. She listened. She considered. She didn't buy – yet.

"It's so quiet here," she told them. "It's driving me nuts."

The room was soundproof, they explained, but they brought her an old iPod, with The Loners' CD on it. She listened repeatedly to their cover of "Suffragette City": "Hey man, oh Henry, don't be unkind, go away / Hey man, I can't take you this time, no way / Hey man, droogie don't crash here / there's only room for one and here she comes, here she comes."

It was the song the band had been playing in the park when she met her, standing shy and brave by the photographs that bared her beautiful soul, another artist determined to make it in the city. And with a smile that made Mattie feel warm, calm, the raging battle of mutated biochemistry going still when she simply tucked her hair behind her ear.

"What's being done about Rebecca Cross? Who's looking for her?"

"We all are," the female detective told her. "Call me Colby. I'm kinda in charge. But we're all looking for Rebecca. That's why it's so important that you keep telling us everything you know about Jessica Jones. So we can nail her and find your sweetie."

* * *

"What are you?"

The fright still hadn't left Cindy Kemper's face, and it made Jessica Jones feel bad again for setting her up. Poor little trying to survive "Amber Diamond", with a body that seemed her ticket out, was now caught in the middle of power games and sinking fast – Jess knew the feeling.

She'd paid _Random Guy Looking for a Fix #53_ to place the phone call to Manhattan Ribeye. She'd used the number of a credit card, originally set up by Pryce Cheng under the name Paul Chan, that she'd bought six months earlier off the dark web, and had her hired front-man pay for both an hour of "Amber" / Kemper and a swank hotel room in Upper Manhattan to meet her in.

She'd had snapped the door shut behind the woman when she walked in, noting from the terror on her face that Kemper had no doubt who had just locked the door behind her.

"I'm just like you," she said now. "Trying to survive this goddamn city."

"I've seen you on TV. I've heard about you, what you do." Kemper gave the slightest shake of her head. "How did you end up like this?'

"How did you wind up here?" Jess said rhetorically, walking to a chair and sliding down into it. She gestured at another. "Shit happens and we roll with it."

"Are you going to kill me? Like you did that other girl?"

"No," Jones answered immediately. "I didn't even hurt her and I'm not going to hurt you either. I just need to figure out how we both wound up here. Can we just talk?"

Kemper relaxed very marginally. She slung her tiny purse to the floor by the chair as she slid down with feline grace. She folded sculpted legs, tugging at the hem of her elegantly spare black dress. "Why not? I'm dressed well enough for it."

Jess offered her a smile, knowing the joke was Cindy's way to try and regain her equilibrium.

She didn't know this Cindy, but she knew a lot of Cindys. Midwestern vibe, farmgirl sunny face, body that screamed good genes and a young life full of exercise, gone to New York to hit it big and landing flat. Girls like her were just meals for the one percent and their courtiers – in her case, a juicy steak.

Leaning forward, she walked through it with her.

Yes, Cindy confirmed, her employer "Manhattan Ribeye," had been instructed – she swore she didn't know by who but understood "M.R." itself was owned by someone named Lukin – to place her with Halberstam next time he called. And she'd been told to make very sure he kept asking for her every time he called after, to pout and insist on seeing him regularly – at a cut-rate, men liked to hear that, and the difference for her was made up and doubled by M.R..

Yes, she recorded everything. No, no one knew that but her employers.

"Do you know David Lawson?"

She sighed, "Yeah, 'fact, it did start to make some sense when I met him." She even blushed slightly, suddenly looking her twenty-two years of age instead of the polished late twenties vibe she'd been giving off thanks to a year as a working girl. "I mean, I'm not _stupid,_ Ms. Jones. I knew it had to be somebody else in the mayor's race, and I even knew who Lawson was working for. So, when he turned up, it all made sense. Especially when he started talking. I mean, guys _talk_ to you, you know, like you're just living in this place in their head and you don't exist outside the hotel room? Especially once he'd gotten a half-bottle of Glenfiddich down him and a good blow job."

"When did you start sleeping with him?" she asked quietly, with zero judgment.

Her eyes widened, then she looked away. "I met him when he had some questions about Halberstam. Then, about a week later …." She shrugged. "They told me David was on the regular schedule now, too. Gave me an address, a hotel, and I showed up and – yeah."

"Yeah," Jones said lifelessly. "So you were a perq?"

"He's better than most. Just wants the Girlfriend Experience. He's pretty open with me, meeting me in the lobby. Drinking at the bar. Even driving me someplace after if it was on the way. Never lied to me that I know of. I think he's lonely. Very lonely."

"My heart bleeds," Jessica said dryly. "Given he's making a lot of other people lonely, too."

"Hey," Cindy retorted with a bit of salt. "He was actually pretty damn good in bed. When he stopped taking my calls, I was a bit …." She shrugged. "You take what you can get in life, you know?"

Jess titled her head. "In any of this, did my name come up?"

"All the time," she laughed mirthlessly. "David is obsessed with all you people. But the fact you became such a 'street hero' as he called it for killing that – mind controller? It made him furious." She shifted in her chair. "He had some master plan worked out. Said he kept it on a computer that was a "clean vault", whatever that means. Somehow, it involved you, a whole lot of you."

"Clearly, he's put that plan in action." Jessica thought a moment. "Any other obsessions."

"Nightmares," she responded. She told Jess about Kunar, the dead Marines, the lack of response from the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D. – "or any other of the super-agencies draining resources from the military and CIA, as he kept saying."

"So, he hates _me?_ I had nothing to do with that."

"He said he had to destroy people like you now, so he'd have a chance to destroy people like them later."

Jessica's mouth was dry, and she coughed.

 _And they say I'm off-the-tracks._

"Other than meeting him weekly at that hotel, did you ever see him anyplace else? I mean, out of the car?"

"Once. One of those times he offered to drop me off for my next date. He asked how long I had until then, and when I told him, he stopped by a cemetery. Some veteran's cemetery, in Brooklyn."

Jones arched her eyebrows.

"He got out," Cindy went on. "Went to a grave and stood there for a long time."

Jess was looking at her phone, where a text had just come in from a number that was just a numeric code. Jessica had no doubt she'd just heard from Brett Mahoney.

"Okay." Jessica leaned forward. "Cindy, look. You. Me. Women like us and men like them, we … goddamn it, you know I've been set up, don't you?" She tapped her heart. "In there."

The other woman sat through a long shuddering breath, then nodded.

"Okay," Jess said. "Then show me this grave."

* * *

"The thing is," Jessica Drew was saying, "you've got your hands full." She leaned back, eyes glancing over the Rose Bar, keeping track of the security obviously backing up Clay Quartermain.

"No, the thing is," he replied, "I'm still more concerned how you know about all this in the first place."

Happy he was finally past denying it completely, she laughed, tossing in a little waft of her spidey pheromones to dust his ire down. "Clay, we both have our sources. Let's not waste time on that. You're not going after mine and I'd never go after yours. I told you, I'm in this because I want Mattie Franklin back. Safe." She swallowed. "Is she safe? At least give me that much."

He sighed. "Yeah. Look, we don't know where she is, but we know they're looking after her. They're feeding her well, anything she wants, she makes the menu, orders the snacks. She thinks she's in protective custody." He scratched behind his ear. "I know you just had some jerk stick a gun in your face out of a chopper. But, look. This NYPD rogue group backing Keaton, they're devout in their beliefs about – your type of human. But they're not stupid. They're moving faster and faster into wait-and-see, paradoxical as that seems, and they want her as leverage. Although …."

"What?" Drew asked sharply.

"They may be drugging her. Either to sedate her or do some mental adjustments or …"

Inside, she seethed, but losing her temper here, with him, wouldn't do Mattie any good at all. "Well, that would explain her relative docility."

She leaned forward. Bio-enhanced pheromones, a little black dress, and three hundred set-ups a day always paid off dealing with the self-imagined alpha-male.

She made her pitch. "And you've been thrown into this royal cockup for political reasons and at a very bad time, indeed. Your agency is under siege at home, S.H.I.E.L.D. is moribund, Russia is going into overdrive, and a silly little spat stirred up over a mayor's race has your agency distracted about matters not even within its jurisdiction. Now, I've got my nose in, and an idea or two I won't share unless you want to be a dear and become complicit. All I need to know is what you've picked up on the wire about my opposition's plan. I can carry some of the burden."

He leaned back, unconsciously defensive. Even years after those few nights together in Vienna, he knew very well how addictive this spider could be. Folding his arms, he shrugged. "Okay. You're right. They'll have a sniper squad ready when they make their move. But it's a layer cake. NYPD will have the take-down covered, but just to fight escape. It's not a killed-resisting scenario." He shrugged. "Obviously your opposition has a higher layer with a backup plan."

"Hence the sniper," she mused, running her fingers in lines on the tabletop trying to connect dots in her head. "But that could backfire, make Jones a martyr."

"No, I'm saying a backup plan. Why use a sniper on Jones? He's there for something, someone else."

She looked up. "Because they're going to get Jess by going at her sideways. The sniper isn't to kill her. He's set to kill someone who would protect her."

"Christ," Quartermain was nodding. "Something you need to know. It has to do with the DHS agent running counter on the Lawson moves. And there's a helluva story that goes with it."

* * *

"Sir," the uniform in Jessica's office door said to Oscar. "I'm going to have to ask you to step aside."

"Where's Costa?" He turned and looked at Jess. "I thought _he_ was meeting you here."

"It's okay," Jessica replied, standing and coming around her desk. "Serves me right for trusting any one of these pricks."

"Ma'am?" the uniform at the door sighed.

"Let them take me in," Jessica told Oscar. "This is mine to deal with."

"This is bullshit," Oscar muttered.

But he moved to one side, fuming, as several uniforms came into Jess' office, followed by a lean, hungry looking detective, holding up a badge. "I'm Detective Colby Evans. Are you Jessica Jones?"

"Unfortunately."

Evans motioned and one of the officers began rattling off in a dry monotone, "Jessica Jones, you are under arrest for the murder of Miranda Pritchett and for the kidnapping of Mattie Franklin. You have the right to remain silent …."

"Total bullshit," Oscar muttered.

Against the background drone of her Miranda Rights, the detective smirked at Oscar. "If I was you," she said, "I'd worry more about getting dinged for hindering apprehension of felon. That's at least a ride downtown. You may bet the rap, parolee, but you can't beat the ride. And your PO won't like it. Doesn't take a charge to get your parole violated, just a show of bad associations, like Jones here. And you have custody of a young son, right?" She tutted. "Such a shame, breaking up a child and a parent, but the state will find a place for him."

Jessica glowered, but turned, wrists behind her. A uniform cuffed her and double-locked.

"My attorney's business card is in my jacket pocket," Jones told him. "Pull it out, read the back out loud, and hand it to the detective here." The officer glanced over, and the detective nodded but held her hand out, so that when the cop had it he gave it to her.

"Well, what do you know? Sorry, Ms. Jones, but an inter-departmental said Mr. Nelson is no longer representing criminal clients as of 0745 this morning. Someone named Marci Stahl will be covering the cases of his _former_ clients unless you want to change counsel. You'll probably meet her at your arraignment in 48 hours."

The officer yanked her by the elbow past Oscar. She gave him a bleak _don't worry_ smile as she went by. He tried to follow and was blocked by the detective.

"Go home and see your son," Evans told him. "While you still can."

Jessica stood in the elevator, cuffed, surrounded, and frowned at a dark red blotch on the floor, remembering when Hope Shlottman killed her parents right there, under Kilgrave's command. She closed her eyes, seeing the moment Hope killed herself.

 _Hope. Another girl lost for trusting Jessica Jones._

Coming out of the elevator, she could see the press outside, stirring, circling, sharks smelling her blood in the water, cameras ready. Her face turned to stone, her eyes still filled with fire, as she was shove-marched toward the yawning mouth of the beast boiling beyond the doors.

And just then, from the side, a much better dressed group of people emerged, holding up badges. "Homeland Security, stop right there," a woman said quietly, but with command.

The NYPD cops stopped, flummoxed, staring, as a well-dressed, attractive agent with curly dark hair emerged from the middle of the federal contingent and introduced herself.

"Agent Dinah Madani," she said to Evans. Madani turned from her and gave Jess a once over. "Jessica Jones? You're being detained as a material witness in a federal investigation."

Evans wasn't giving up easily. "What federal investigation?"

Madani held up one finger and pushed an earpiece tighter. "Confirming. You've locked down the perimeter and everything inside it? Copy that." She looked up. "I'm sorry, Detective – Evers – isn't it?"

"Evans," she seethed.

"You're not cleared for that information."

The woman tried to argue but Madani simply and quickly ignored her. "The exit is secured," she said to her fellow Feds, who had advanced with a certain lethal determination, chest-bumping their local counterparts here and there, until one looked pointedly at the cop holding her elbow.

"Jessica Jones is a material witness, not a suspect," the Fed said. "Uncuff her."

"She's just been arrested on two felony warrants!"

From the other side, a familiar voice emerged. "And service was just entered into the system, but we're asserting federal jurisdiction." Foggy jammed his hands in his pockets. "Special Assistant United States Attorney Franklin Nelson. Her bonds on your warrants have been met and filed by the way."

"Petition's also been filed," the detective snapped back, "to revoke her probation because of the felony warrants."

"And a hearing was set on that when her bond was made. She's on recognizance until then."

The NYPD detective had gone from livid to terrified, staring out at the writhing rat king of reporters she'd promised would be fed. "Who …. How – that fast? There's a million five in bond money on these cases –"

"Mr. Anthony Stark paid for the bonds, in cash, in person." Nelson smirked at her. "You might tell that to your Ms. Cummings out there. It's something Stark actually did, as opposed to something she claims he's been doing."

Madani gave him a sharp look. "That's enough, SAUSA Nelson," she said, pronouncing it "sowsa". She looked at the detective. "We're done here, Detective Evers."

"Evans!"

Madani had already turned from her. "Ms. Jones, I'd appreciate it if you walked out beside me."

Rubbing her wrists, Jessica's mind was finally catching up in the swirl around her. Her feet felt heavy, the rest of her feeling like a cloud, like she might blow away.

Evans moved toward them but was blocked as Eddy Costa came from around Jess. "Stand down, detective. That's an order."

"Oh, it figures you'd be backing this little bitch, Costa."

"IA wants to see you, first thing you get downtown," he replied. "Surveillance on a so-called murder suspect is one thing. Having your teams report to persons outside the department before they even bother checking in with you, though? We've got it – photos, videos, recordings, between us – and Ms. Jones here – we got the whole thing."

Evans stared, mouth opening and closing like a guppy.

He took Jess' elbow, guiding gently into the middle of the Fed contingent.

"Nice little _douche ex machina_ routine here, Costa," she muttered.

"It's _deus ex machina_."

"Not in New York. So. When does the _third_ shoe fall and how hard is it gonna hit my head?"

"Jones," he sighed and said, without rancor, "just shut up and let somebody save _your_ life for a change."

They had reached Agent Madani, who murmured, "You roll up their surveillance?"

Costa nodded. "Your people sweep for snipers?"

"Done." Madani gestured toward the door and said with sudden gentility. "You've been through a lot, Ms. Jones. Please let me walk out of here. And keep your chin up – show them you're now a valued member of Team Good Guys."

Walking out uncuffed – not the perp walk but striding out as a key federal witness – was whiplash to Cummings' narrative. Jess nodded warily, looking Dinah Madani up and down. She quickly sized her up to be no-bullshit and probably hell in a street fight. She got the same look back from Fed.

 _Takes one to know one._

They walked out, past the lights, and when someone asked why Jessica Jones wasn't in handcuffs, Madani smiled and said, "Ask Detective Evers, I think it is. S."

Jess glanced at the reporters twice, catching Karen Page's delighted wink as she went by.

Foggy made the only other comments. Someone recognized him and asked if he was representing Jessica, to which he replied, "I have accepted an appointment as a Special Assistant U.S. Attorney – a temporary position used to bring in experienced lawyers on specific matters. I don't have anything more to say other than that Ms. Jones is _not_ a suspect in any wrongdoing so far as the federal government is concerned."

"What about Mattie Franklin?" someone else shouted.

"That's one matter in which she's assisting the authorities, among others."

"We were told," Cummings fumed, "she was being arrested!"

"Tony Stark bonded her out on state charges. They do not concern us."

There were audible gasps on hearing the Avengers were involved in keeping her out of Rikers. By then, she had slid into the back of a Humvee, followed by Madani. Foggy plopped into the front seat and clapped his door shut. The vehicle began moving, Madani scanning the roofs.

"What, you're a Fed, now?" Jessica muttered. "That was fast."

"Tell me about it," Foggy replied. "Wasn't supposed to be sworn in for another month." He half-turned. "I'm a SAUSA, it's a temporary appointment."

"And this particular play," Dinah added, "was your friend's way of shocking the narrative hard, live, on camera."

"Buys us back some space," Foggy told her. "Cummings and Team Keaton are gonna be gun-shy and the public loves a plot twist, so we're hoping they'll stop howling for your blood. I'll be walled off from your case because of conflicts, but Agent Madani is hoping you'll work with her if I'm on the team in general."

"Look," Jess turned to the striking Persian woman and lifted her wrists. "Lady Madani. Clearly, Costa got you my bundle of files."

"Which corroborated and supplemented our own findings, yes."

Jones raised her wrists. "And I appreciate it, getting the bracelets off and everything, but you don't seriously think I'm trusting you, do you?"

"He didn't say trust," Dinah snapped. "He said work with." Madani was listening to the bug in her ear, and muttered, "Copy that. Keep her there and … no, nothing we can do for him, leave him for now." She rapped on the front seat. "Turn left, two blocks up."

Jessica strained to see through the window when they turned and screech-braked to a stop. A man was strung off a second story landing by a bungee cord wrapped around his ankle like tarot's hanging man card, his body about head-high to those on the ground, his bullet-smashed head dripping blood down into a little pool.

A group of suited men and women held pistols on Jessica Drew, who was leaning back against the wall, inspecting the finger-nails of her right hand, gloves wrapped under her left arm tight against her body.

No one objected when Jones came out of the Humvee with everyone else, and she relaxed a bit. Maybe they were serious about her new status. She glanced at the weapons: Sig Sauer P-320Cs. DHS standard.

"They can lower the guns," Drew remarked nonchalantly, not looking up at first, but then scanning the sky. She had a comm-set on, the little microphone still at her mouth. "The drones you have up will verify I was clinging to the wall there –" she pointed up at the side of the building she leaned against — "peeking through the window he was crouched in just there when this arse –" she pointed at the corpse "—met an old friend of Agent Madani's. Well … met by long distance, and with a conversation that was very short indeed."

Everyone looked at Dinah except for Drew, who went back to inspecting her nails, and Costa, whose eyes narrowed. "So, whoever the fuck you are, you're saying you didn't do this?

She gave him a sultry laugh. "I may have bird-dogged this pricksicle, but a counter-sniper fired the shot that took him out – right as he had Ms. Madani in his sights."

"And you know that, how?" Dinah bowed up.

"When I confirmed him spotted, so our friend could focus on him," Drew yawned, "I had just gotten close enough I heard him saying, and I quote, 'Got Madani scoped!'" She snapped her fingers. "Next thing I know his head is a melon."

"You were," Eddy drawled, "on the wall?"

"Did I not mention I was Spider-Woman?"

"Christ, how many spiders does this city have?"

"Not enough, obviously. Anyway, autographs, selfies later. There's swag on line. But yes. On the wall. Not fast enough to get at his rifle, but then turns out I didn't have to be. But –" she pointed up. "I did go in and I wrapped the spotter for you. You'll find him in room 436. You're welcome."

"We swept this area for snipers!" Madani told her.

"Check the drone footage," Drew answered. "It'll be good training material when you spot how you missed him. As for the counter-shooter, he was out of your perimeter. Precisely 2,973 meters away." At the blank stares, she added, "Ah, yes, well, I'd like to say I really am that good at guessing, but again, the counter-sniper and I were on comm at the time." She turned her head, tapping the little set at her ear.

"Who the hell could have even made that shot?" one of the other agents scoffed. "And why?"

"Well, him, obviously, and I believe he mentioned some fairness Agent Madani had shown him in the past." She looked directly at Dinah.

"For the time being, I guess thanks are appropriate," Madani said.

"I don't even know you," Drew replied. "I did it so you'd be around to protect Jessica."

"It's a nice story," Madani said. "Raising fifty unanswered questions. Give me a reason I shouldn't take you in now and let a team spend the next couple of days raking it – and you – over."

"Because if you do that," Jones murmured. "I walk."

Everyone turned, most looking like they'd forgotten she was there.

"Why?" Madani demanded wearily.

Jess shifted in her boots, then looked directly at Drew.

"She's my partner."

* * *

Dinah Madani was holding up a photograph of a gravesite, printed out from the packet Jones had zipped together and emailed to Eddy Costa. "This cinched it for us," she said. "But I imagine you knew that. We had no idea how Lt. Cross' ID was being used. Should have — didn't."

Jones was in a peace-making mood. "You had a mountain of info to sort, mostly chasing down piles of super-weapons that needed to be taken off the street."

"And a Quinjet."

Jones laughed the airless laugh of the weary. "Damn, everybody's been looking it, and I'm the only person around who seems to have seen. But my point is you had your hands full. I was focused on one lost girl." She leaned over the conference table. "And look, by the way, Cindy Kemper? She's just a kid, got mixed up in all this, I'd appreciate you cutting her some slack."

"We got no interest in busting her," Costa said. "Hell, she can come out of this with a book deal, or she can head back quietly to the barrens of Indiana – whatever she wants."

"We may need her to testify down the road," Dinah said idly, staring at the picture before putting it respectfully down on the table.

The reality of the tombstone in the shot had a ghostly hold on them a moment before Dinah spoke again.

"He died in a remote part of Kunar Province, Afghanistan." She pressed her fingertips against her eyes. "I didn't know him. But I remember the incident. After Eddy brought me your files, I had a look at the matter expedited. We're still nailing it down, but we think …" she hesitated, her caution against speaking too soon kicking in.

Jones finished for her. "Aleksander Lukin took over Samuel Cross' identity." She shrugged. "Sometimes, at least. Sometimes Lukin, sometimes Cross, other times, who the fuck knows? Another name to use, another avenue to walk, moving his toys around. He was a Bunburyist, after all."

Dinah frowned. "Wait – like, in Oscar Wilde?"

Jessica had no idea what that meant, but just then Eddy got her attention. "Why the hell would he have stuck himself out there and meet you at Josie's, though?" Costa asked. "Huge risk, with these stakes."

"To play with his food," Drew muttered.

"Some boys," Jones agreed, "just like playing games. And he'd already been 'Samuel Cross' for a while. If he needed to show up as Cross again, this would keep it consistent. They'd decided to take her because of the café photo, they knew they wanted me to be the poster child of powered insanity — it must have been pretty irresistible to hire me right into the middle of this mess. Tied it up with one ribbon."

"But why'd he 'buy' Cross' identity in the first place?" Costa said. "Way back when?"

She pointed at another picture in front of Dinah, this one the café photo. "Samuel Cross never lived in Lago, maybe didn't like the PFD any more than his brother. But ironically, he may have been the one who first clued David Lawson and the rest in to the PFD." Jones shoved back in her chair, hands folded over her stomach, shaking her head slowly. Tired.

Drew took up the slack. "So, talk to Samuel's brother," she suggested to Agent Madani. "Jessica told me it had been well over a decade since he'd had contact with anyone in Lago. And when our 'heroes' sided with PDF – whether it was the day after or the year after what happened in Kunar – they bought and locked up Samuel's ID. His brother probably never bothered to tell his ex-wife that Samuel was dead and buried. Instead, she got a vague story planted with Rebecca by email or something equally distant. Rebecca assumed it really was her uncle Sam."

Jones nodded. "With everyone knowing about the war hero brother of the Cross who did live there, Lukin / Samuel was able to travel pretty freely in and out to meet with PFD and the rest of the Haters-R-Us crew based there. The one time he was stopped, in fact, he was covered."

Madani was thinking so hard, so keenly, she was almost vibrantly. For the third, maybe fourth time already, Jones was impressed by the steel the DHS agent seemed wrapped around. Now, she dismissed everyone from the room other than Eddy Costa and the two new stars of the team.

"I still have a warehouse's worth of contraband super-tech weaponry unaccounted for," Dinah began. "And if I could just get that damned Quinjet off the red ledger, I could count this a win."

Madani flattened her palms on the table top and dropped her voice. "But what really matters here? Two young women's lives are at stake and in the hands of increasingly desperate men, within an idiotic plan, that's going off the rails fast."

She flipped off the recorder.

"You two are going to get some wide latitude from this point," she began.


	12. Ep 12: AKA Candy Gram for Mongo

**ESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 12: AKA Candy Gram For Mongo**

* * *

"What do you mean they're just standing around?" Lawson said. He stood scowl-staring out his office window.

The voice on the other end of the phone burred, "You need to get Gunny down here, get these jerks in line. I'm just a desk sergeant looking for a promotion and keeping his nerve, if you don't mind me pointing this out, while giving you the heads up everyone else is scared to."

"Appreciated," Lawson snapped. "Noted. Now, what are they doing?"

"They're not doing – anything. It's like they're on strike. Half of them is scared shitless now that Jones is right back on the street, half of them is frozen stiff because nobody can find Colby Evans and get updated orders. She never showed up at IAD and her cell's either off or confiscated. There _is_ no one coordinating this for them. So, yet another half of them, they're talking about just walking out. Half of them is talking about leaving the country." He paused. "Yeah, okay, some of those halves overlap. My math on the lieutenant's exam may be what's holding me back, after all. But it's maybe ten guys left, counting both sites, and they're strictly B-Team now. Hell, half of them is just jailers hoping to make patrol."

Lawson sighed, slumping. "Gunny's working something else for me right now." He drummed his fingers on the window pane, then sighed. "Got it. All right, go back, tell them to calm the fuck down. I'm sending someone down, challenge word, 'Bubbles.' Got it?"

He hung up.

"I'm down to using what I got," he muttered to the woman sitting across the desk from him. "Street thugs. If I can't get Jones to break, then we'll get some Heat down this spider-girl and set her off. If the programming's taken root, she'll give us all the show we need. But I've got one last play to get Jones berzerk and we've got a ton of air time invested in that, so the public will turn on her immediately."

LMD Maria Hill smiled as he pulled a one-time-only, throw-down cell phone from his desk drawer.

"You're with me, here on out," he told her. "Bodyguard duty."

He texted Denny Haynes to let him know the Heat target wasn't Hellcat anymore. But the new one would be easy to find. He waited, read the response, and his mouth drew in with distaste. He texted back.

 _{That's your price?}_

 _{Seller's market, dude. Yes or no?}_

He drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, staring at LMD Hill whose complete lack of expression calmed him.

 _{Fine, you sick fuck. But get her up and running after that.}_

* * *

Agent Madani slid into the chair across the small table from Colby Evans. "She's been given her warnings?"

The DHS agent in the shadows of the interrogation room nodded. "Miranda and Garrity, both."

"I thought I was seeing Internal Affairs, not you people," Evans said.

Dinah took off her watch and set it on the table. "I don't have much time and you have even less," she said. "I have people in the field closing in on finding both Mattie Franklin and Rebecca Cross. Tell me where they are now, and you get consideration."

"On what?" Evans spread her hands. "What am I, under arrest?

"The warnings were a fail-safe, but, no, you're free to go at any time so far as the Department of Homeland Security is concerned. This is a limited opportunity to make things go easier when you _are_ arrested."

"Oh, for Christ's sakes, for what?"

"Where is Rebecca Cross? Where is Mattie Franklin?"

Evans shoved back in her chair. "Ask someone who knows."

"Sounds like we're done, then," Dinah capped her pen. "But please don't leave town, Detective Evers."

"It's Evans."

Madani was already out of the room. The man from NYPD's IAD stepped in with Eddy Costa.

"Detective, I need you to come with me," IAD said.

"I need to call this in," Evans flustered, "since it's taking all day."

"The Precinct is aware of where you are," he replied.

Costa smiled at the lie.

* * *

By bearing, age, and an air of competence among them, the plain clothes officer who entered the small room full of Watchdogs and uniforms was clearly in charge. He squared off, hands on his hips, and took in Denny Haynes. He sniffed and made a face at the sweetly sick smell of the chemicals they were pumping into this sealed chamber.

"Bubbles?" the cop said. " _You_ are Bubbles?"

"Bubbles is the security check word," Haynes said. "Not my damn name."

The cop glanced at the dazed, weakened girl on the hospital style bed. "Where's Gunny?"

"Screw that whistle-voice idiot. I'm the new Gunny." Haynes leaned over Mattie's bed, leering down at her. "You stuck-up little bitch. Didn't see this coming, did ya?" Haynes was staring down Mattie's face hungrily, grinning at the terror in her eyes. He looked back at the cops. "You got the water? 'Cuz I got the Heat. I'm here to get her whipped into speed so we can use her out there. Boss wants it done now."

"Christ," another cop exhaled. "Nobody knows where the hell Evans is and now Lawson's relying on goddamn street rats."

"Get his ass out of here," Haynes told the senior officer.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he replied.

"I know what Lawson told you," Haynes smirked. "I'm the new boss on the ground. And I get what I want." He strutted around the bed, taking in Mattie's form beneath it. Dope-weak, feverish, she fought to rise, but he slapped her back down. "And that's who I am."

" … kill … you …." she murmured, eyes blurred with tears, her fingers twisting the sheet.

"Water, again?" Haynes said to the cops. "I've got the Heat right here."

"I'm not liking this," a third officer muttered.

"Then you can go, too, and see how long you live after doing it," Haynes said. He held up the Heat pill. "This'll twist her little head around. I'll need to send her to track and kill _somebody_ just as a test. You'll do."

The senior officer stared at Mattie, then muttered to the other cops. "Guys, she's just a freak." He threw a small water bottle to Haynes. "Nobody who matters to us."

Haynes nodded. "Good. Once I get a little something out of my system, I dose her and go to work. Everybody out." Haynes snapped the sheet off of her. He pointed at one of the officers. "You. Go to Rite Aid, get me a condom, and get it back here. God only knows what the little freak has going on in her body right now."

The officer looked at his senior, who nodded once, chewing bile.

Haynes reached to the ties of her hospital gown as everyone else left the room. "May as well enjoy the view while I wait for the drive."

* * *

Trish snapped off the television and paced. "The hell happened to Hoskins?" she asked. "I mean it's all over every station, but no one seems to know why he's taking a sudden sabbatical and answering no questions from the press. WFRT speculates it's a family medical emergency and sent him their 'thoughts and prayers,' and that's it."

"Who even cares?" Daimon replied, voice thin.

She dropped to the couch beside him and kissed his chin. "You tried."

"I failed," He muttered. "I thought if I could get things calmed down here, people would start paying more attention to – up there." His gaze lifted. "Thanos. Instead, the Avengers, what's left of S.H.I.E.L.D., everyone has been running around putting out the brushfires caused by a greedy Russian, an idiot politician, and his power-hungry handler. I couldn't get their attention long enough for them to even listen."

She ran a finger over his chest. "I still don't understand what this Thanos is going to do."

"It's enough to say simply that it's horrifying," he replied. "I'm going to him directly. If Earth won't prepare, I'll see if I can stop it entirely." He kissed her softly, sucking lightly at her lips once and then pulling back. "At least I'm leaving this little failed venture with you by my side. So I actually won rather a lot. I wish you'd let me take you to a zone of protection."

"Look …" She kissed his throat. "Jess is still out there. And whatever has happened with us, Daimon, you know I'm going to do whatever I can to help my sister, even if she hates me."

He nodded. "You'll do what you will and that will be the whole of the law. I know. I knew that when I first saw you. It was how I knew we are of the same spirit." He closed his eyes. "Just stay safe. We've worlds ahead of us."

* * *

They dropped the two cases of protein shakes at the front door of the warehouse.

"I'm actually beginning to see the advantages of the hoodie," Drew murmured, with a small side nod toward the security camera above. "Not in a fashion sense, mind you, but, still."

"Yeah, well," Jones ran her fingers over the faded address stenciled on the door. "Half of safety for women is avoiding the Victoria Secret's catalog. Place seems – quiet, considering, doesn't it?"

"Safe house," Drew reminded her. "The hoodie of holding areas." She poked a hole through the plastic wrapped over the top of a case and yanked one out. She had it halfway inhaled when she noticed Jones staring at her.

"What?" she fidgeted. "You want one?"

Jess kept staring but pushed the buzzer.

"So, what do we say?" Drew murmured. "Candy gram for Mongo?"

"It's either that," Jess replied, "or Land Shark."

"Very good!" Drew chuckled. "Is it weird for both of us to be into 70s trivia?"

"Oh, yeah," Jones answered dryly. "That – _that_ – is what's so weird about us." She shook her head and pressed the buzzer again. "We like 70s flicks, Monty Python, early SNL, and 80s sitcoms because we're both fucked up kids who couldn't sleep without nightmares and grew up with cable."

Drew thought, then coughed. "You're rather good at this detecting thing, you know. Figuring out what makes people tick."

"Good, hell," Jones groused. "I'm a natural."

A voice buzzed in the speaker. "Yeah?"

In a snap, Jessica Jones transformed into a sassy Jersey girl, popping gum she didn't have in her mouth. "Hey, somebody said get some more protein shakes here, like, pronto?"

Pause. The two women glanced at each other.

"We just got a delivery," the box rattled.

"We have a grail, already," Drew whispered in a French accent. Jones popped her arm with the back of her hand and Drew leaned toward the speaker.

"Well, happy to keep them for ourselves," the Englishwoman said in a perfect midwestern American accent. She giggled. "So, you'll, like, square it with that cop lady, Evans? 'Cuz she was in kind of a bad mood an hour ago. See ya!" She bent as if to pick up the cases.

"Wait! You talked to Detective Evans just an _hour_ ago? Don't go anywhere, hang on."

"You're pretty good at this yourself," Jones murmured to Drew.

"I'm no natural," Drew teased. "But I'm not bad at winding people up." She rolled her head, flexing her arms, fingers intertwined. She had tossed the now-empty bottle to the side, and now bent over and pulled out one more, loosening the cap.

They heard locks being snapped open on the other side of the door.

The door pried open creaking like the deck of a pirate ship, but once free was swung all the way to accommodate the broad flat cases of plastic bottles. Three men in plain clothes stepped through, all of them sweeping the area with their eyes, the one in the middle saying, "Thanks, girls, we got those. Hey, where'd you say you talked to Detective Evans?"

"So, you're real cops?" Drew twirled her hair with two fingers. Jones felt a sudden unpleasant wash of sensation, then rolled her eyes.

 _Again, with the pheromones._

All three men smiled, turning toward the spider, stepping closer, inhaling chemicals but thinking _hot cop groupie._

Jones slid back two steps, un-noticed, shaking her head. All three now had their back to her as she peered through the door. She was surprised it didn't lead into an office – instead there was simply yawning twilight. _But no immediate backup._

"Oh, yeah, we're real cops, sugar," the guy in the middle said. "Hey, you said you talked to Detective Evans an hour ago?"

"Want some?" Drew replied, opening the bottle and raising it, but bobbing her eyebrows up and down suggestively so he leaned in.

The thing about All Hell is that when it Breaks Loose, Jones had often noticed, it seems to happen slowly. The man who reeled back and away from Drew, covering his eyes and sputtering, seemed to be part of an NFL replay.

Jess watched Drew throw the other half of the bottle's fluid into his partner's eyes at the same time she slammed the heel of the palm of her other hand into the face of the third man.

The first man never got straightened back up - Jones was in motion by then. Her upper-cut palm at his forehead kept him going backward until his crown met her knee. She spun him off her leg and met his blundering shove toward his feet with a shot of her palm at his jaw, sending him down and out.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Drew follow suit, dropping the bottle and snapping a round-house kick into the face of the man she'd half-blinded. Jones swept his legs from under him, then backed away, catching his instinctive (and off balance) counter-punch as he lurched back up. One hand behind his wrist, one hand bracing his elbow, she snapped the arm and spun him screaming into the side of the building.

By the time his face met the brick, both women were through the door and into the shadows. They stared across the floor at three small prefab chambers in octagon shapes, linked with tented passageways.

Hard boot-falls echoed, five figures coming around the corner of one octagon. Three skated to a stop several paces in front of the other two, handguns aimed.

"Right!" Drew said, snapping her gaze up at the rafters, yanking her loose hoodie up and over her head, baring a coiled cord at her waist and a "gun" to shoot it with. "Plan is, again?"

Jess rolled her neck. "Fuck shit up until we get her."

Gun slides racked. Nobody shouted _freeze_.

"It's a bit better than that," Drew murmured.

Jones hit her knees, hands behind her head, screaming out. "She made me! This bitch is crazy!"

At the same moment, Drew shot the cord up to where it clamped onto rafters and spooling her up off the ground.

In another life, Jessica Jones might have felt sorry for how easily magic tricks drew away their eyes and their aim as she launched toward the group. She hadn't been allowed to have any other life. She was blading her hands, running hard and fast.

One worthy got out a weak "hey", gun coming back down to bear when Jessica's hands scissored his arm, snapping it, even as she spun, her right elbow cracking his jaw. She was in close quarters now, the very number of opponents in arm's reach making their own guns dangerous to fire for their team's sake. Her spin finished when her left hand heeled another man's nose flat, blood spurting down her arm, slick and sticky.

She bent back and under a flash of steel blade sweeping at her throat but couldn't bounce back at the assailant as intended. A pistol was swinging into sight, six inches from finishing an arc to press at her forehead.

Her hands were moving – not fast enough – when a Drew-blur swept into the man holding the gun. Jessica Drew swung back but snapped free of the springing cord, bringing her left boot into another man's face and using the impact to catch her balance on her right foot.

The man Drew had swept aside had instinctively fumbled to keep hold of his gun. Jones slapped his face to his right where her fist slammed his temple. She watched him crumple to the floor, turning to see Drew swirling, her elbows, knees, and forearms chopping the two men unconscious.

"Let's go," she panted, but when she turned, she fell to all fours.

Jones almost jumped getting to her, crouching down. Blood was welling where a jagged line went through her pull-over. "Trust me to get the smart one," Drew muttered, nodding to where one of the cops lay with a knife nearby. "Dropped his gun, went to a blade, the minute you went close quarters."

"Crap," Jones said. "You were right, we should've worn flak jackets."

"No, you were right, cops would have spotted those underneath the shirts outside. I'm fine. Med kit in the other pocket." She rapped plastic, a box outlined in the thigh pocket of her tactical trousers.

"Sit tight," Jones told her. "I got it from here."

"That's my Mattie in here," Drew growled. "I'm not losing her."

"You're losing blood fast."

Drew shook her head, hard, once. "Let's go."

Jones helped her to her feet, but after that Drew was moving on her own. They took slow, careful steps, before Jones said, "Was that all they got left now here? The heart of the beast and it's choked with a few globs of cholesterol?" She looked at a card table sitting randomly in the room, went over and rummaged through the papers on it. Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled one sheet up for a closer look.

"Christ …" Drew breathed, moaning slightly. "What if she's been moved?"

But Jess put a hand to her shoulder and pointed, the other hand wadding up the paper and jamming it in her jacket pocket.

One of the octagonal prefabs had small chemical tanks lining the wall, plugged into it, little puffy leaks wafting from the hoses attached to a couple of them.

Denny Haynes had built up enough steam staring at her, imagining what he would do with her, that he was long past being satisfied stroking her face, roughly massaging her breasts, running his hands over her legs as she cried.

"How hard is it," he seethed, "to go to the drug store, get a condom, and get back here?"

He heard the door slide open, turned and threw his arms wide. "Finally!"

And froze.

Drew growled, chest rumbling in ways the normal human chest doesn't.

Jones' blood chilled, every little hair on the back of her neck standing up, at the silvery grave-fog tones wound through Drew's voice when she leaned against the door frame and said to Haynes, "So, tell me, Mr. Haynes. How do you think this is going to go for you?"

* * *

Jessica Drew woke up slowly, blearily, then shoved up onto her elbows, recognizing Jones' place. Lifting the blanket over her body, she saw she was dressed in somebody's sweatshirt featuring The Pretty Reckless and her own pair of tactical trousers. Lifting the shirt, she inspected a fairly competent patch-up job on her belly.

Smiling, she slid her feet to the floor and went into the office area, finding Jess leaning back and pulling wadded paper from the pocket of the jacket hanging off the back of her chair.

"Hey!" Jones snapped up to her feet, striding toward her. "I did what I could, and the cut was pretty shallow, but should you be up?"

But Drew chuckled and waved her off. "I'm fine. You know our healing." She looked down at her trousers. "I might need to change. Though, I suppose dried blood isn't all that unusual in New York?"

"Please! In Hell's Kitchen, it's practically camouflage." Jones turned, going back to her chair and gesturing. As Drew slid into a chair, her counter-part tapped the laptop a few more seconds, then seemed satisfied and shoved back. She tilted a flask to her mouth, swallowed twice, and said, "So a DHS security team is with Mattie in a secure facility. Full medical support. Madani says they'll help get Mattie detoxed, check for other med issues."

"Meaning." Drew nodded. Neither needed anything further.

"Meaning," Jones nodded. "What happened was bad enough, but … well, we stopped Haynes, and …." She shrugged, then lifted the flask, muttering, "Here's hoping."

"Ah, Mr. Haynes," Drew rubbed her eyes, still swollen from crying once Mattie was wheeled out on a gurney by Madani's people – once Mattie hadn't been there to see Jessica break down. "How is our little cockroach?"

"Six weeks hospital time, he'll be good as 'used', but he ain't getting his wings back," Jones smiled. "He'll be moving to Hotel Raft, based on his involvement with the alien and mutant tech market and being directly involved in using drugs to try and turn a powered into a human weapon." She shook her head once. "Stark is actually pretty accommodating when you've got evidence he let an apocalypse build up in his back yard."

"Any blowback from Agent Madani about Haynes' condition?"

"She found our story very compelling," Jones answered, "once I told her we _had_ made up that one detail. The one with Godzilla in it."

Drew reached into a trousers pocket, ripping up a small bulb of webbing. She pulled out a key that she clatter-shoved over the desk top. Jones stopped it in motion, looked it over, and scrunched her eyebrows, looking back at her.

"Key to this place." Drew smiled.

"You made a key to my office?"

"Well, technically, it wasn't your office at the time," Drew sighed. "When I first thought of doing the whole bounty hunter thing, PI thing, I looked at New York. Thinking office and living space combo. Went so far as to get a place furnished and was looking over the terms of the lease."

Jones leaned back slowly. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Chap named Bendis was renting for this fellow Max Prentice. Max, in turn, had just bought the building at the time. Desperate for anything, anyone, to get things moving. So, I pitched working out of my apartment. Bendis talked to the owner and actually fixed the place up for it. I mean, second-hand goods, but anything better and I couldn't have afforded the rent."

Jones leaned on her elbows on the desk. "Which is why this place was pre-furnished. It was in an ad, and it looked goddamned perfect for what I had in mind. Because, well – turns out it was literally refurbed _precisely_ for what I had in mind."

"Yes. But I wound up going back to San Francisco instead. Had new friends there, didn't feel like moving house. And there were some opportunities dangled in front of me to lead me out of New York that were marvels. Told Bendis and left town. Realized I still had the key weeks later." She chuckled. "By then Max Prentice had this other chap on the job, Eugene I think it was, but he was off on vacation in Thailand. I left a message."

"And no one changed the lock," Jessica muttered.

"But I carried the key as a good luck charm – reminded me that this is what I wanted to do, whatever city I was in." She smiled mischievously. "When I looked up your address after seeing the news report about Mattie, fancy my shock. And then I get here and find out it was the same old lock. Made entry rather easy."

Jones shook her head. "I took over the life you would have had."

"Rather comic, isn't it?"

Jones grunted, a half-smile on her lips as she sipped from the flask.

Drew was drifting into reverie. "I was twenty when Nick Fury found me," she murmured. "I'd been brought up Hydra. First boy to seduce me was a Hydra school chum. Told me later he did it on orders, that he was disgusted the whole time, because I was so 'child-like' in my thinking – coming out of that coma, after the experiments."

"And you ran," Jones said. "Heard you were on your own for a while."

"Just a scared kid, really, like those kids out there now." She tilted her head, eyes shimmering a moment, then dry again. "When Fury brought me into S.H.I.E.L.D., he helped me find my parents."

"You said that was bad. Didn't press then but … define bad."

"Found my mum just in time to see her die – Hydra agents. I found my dad, my 'creator' really – after seducing an old Hydra money-bags, because I was still had no more respect than the little Hydra had raised me with. And my dad? Years since he'd seen me, and the first questions he asked were, any heart problems? Brain tumors? Do I have trouble sleeping? What do I eat? Are my menstrual cycles regular?"

"Fucking asshole," Jones muttered.

"He was still hard-core Hydra and close to perfecting his dream. I was the closest he'd come – or ever would before he died." She lowered her chin, hair cloaking her face. "And the hallucinations. I'd try to defy Hydra and my own mind would punish me. They made me that way."

"I'm sorry." She hesitated, then held up the flask. "I know what it's like."

"Maybe the only person really who does," Drew mused. She leaned forward. "Things done to us. The experiments, torture, lies, and um. Yeah. All of it. Hard to get past sometimes."

"All the time," Jones agreed.

"Because it's always in here," Drew putting an elegant finger to her head. "So, I became a stand-offish perfectionist while you …."

"Became a dumpster fire." Jones took two long draws of whiskey, nodded, then yanked a bottle of Jim Beam off the floor and began refilling the flask.

"I think you're bloody marvelous, is what I was going to say. And will say." She smiled gently. "When this is over, you've got my number, any late nights you can't sleep and want to chat." She nodded at the flask. "And there's a difference between judging and worry, you know. I get it that you can heal past the physical damage, but psychologically … well, maybe listen to your boyfriend some about it?

She clapped the bottle onto the desktop. "Again, he's not my –"

"Oh, sister, please!" Drew burst out laughing.

Jones chewed the inside of her cheek, then nodded.

Drew nodded back, a bit more warily. "You trust Madani to handle this? Keep Mattie safe?"

Jones slammed another swallow of whiskey down. "No," she said. "But I don't _distrust_ her. More to the point, our deal is that Costa never – ever – leaves where Mattie is, and he's aware of everything happening with her 24/7, or we both walk on the rest of this investigation and devote our time to dismantling everything Madani cares about. I got Mattie some clothes down there. Madani took those two cases of protein shakes. And I do trust Costa."

She looked at Drew very directly. "Which puts him in a pretty small group."

Jones looked away, relieved when Drew only smiled and didn't spike the ball verbally. She turned back.

"It's everyone around them I don't trust. So as for Rebecca, we keep the info tight and handle it outselves. But you, your spidey-head – you sure you're –"

"I'm fine," Drew replied firmly. "And the deal is still _both_ women, safe and sound. I wish I'd been a bit more help so far on your Rebecca, though." She sighed, pinching the skin of her throat. "We're no closer than we were when I got here."

"About that." Jones turn paper she'd carefully gotten flat from the crumpled state it had been in when she pulled it from her pocket and shoved it over the desk. "From the candy gram delivery. Feel a little closer now?"

* * *

"Hotel Sierra." Lawson stood, staring across the Hudson. O'Malley had made his report five minutes earlier. It had taken the attorney that long to reply, and yet now, all he could say again was, "Hotel Fucking Sierra. What are the odds?"

"Only so many places left that take care of people," O'Malley began, "then add in the Catholic factor, then the –"

"Rhetorical question, Gunny," he said. He glanced up the way where LMD Hill stood out of earshot. "Maybe I was even set up. I don't know. Never mind." He sighed, turning to look back at Patterson, New Jersey. "She takes good care of Dad. Dad raised me here, you know."

"Yes, sir."

Lawson's mind was ablaze. "No one else knows about this devilish situation, right?"

"I followed your instructions, sir. I don't even have a paper trail of my own for it. It's all here." O'Malley tapped his head. "I burned the photos, everything. Maximum security before reporting."

"The weird-ass son-of-a-bitch isn't just alive. He's Sister Margaret's boy. And he is right the fuck there. Ripe to be taken. You know what Fisk would do with this information?"

"I can imagine."

"No. No, you can't, Gunny. Nor can I. We're just realists. Fisk is diseased." He sighed, turning back to look across the river at New York City. "All right. Here's the deal. We'll never speak of this again. If Fisk, by any means, through anyone, for whatever bizarre reason, figures out you might know something and gets in touch with you, then so far as you know, there is no Sister Maggie. You've heard of Daredevil like everybody else, and that's all you know."

O'Malley stared at him. "Just to be sure, sir. We're burying this?"

"We are. Semper fi?"

"Semper fi."

"But as for Jones – we're going to have to punch the last key on the board." He gave O'Malley a sidelong glance. "I know you don't like it, but it's the last shot we've got to drive Jones into the meltdown the campaign needs. And now that Madani has fucked up our narrative, we've _got_ to get it back on track or this thing could all go south. This goes right, then Jones becoming the literal poster child for the freaks will be perfect once she's pulled off some public mayhem."

O'Malley was frowning, but nodded once, firmly. "But they have Franklin back. And if Jones holds together, then what?"

"Then," he swung the computer bag around to his belly. "I have this. The plan. Notes on every meeting." He pulled the computer halfway the bag so Gunny could see it had been modified. "Had LMD Hill fit it with a port. I put every photo, every email, every video – believe me. Nobody's going to touch me knowing I have this in hand. In fact, they'll see to it I'm living large. I'll just have to lay low for an election cycle or two. I'll make plenty just handling back channels between POTUS and Lukin's pals abroad."

"Where will you go, sir?"

Lawson sighed, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Triple fee will be in your account within the hour. Punch that last key, and then take a nice vacation and leave it to the team, Gunny. Get completely away. Come see me for more work after the election." He closed his eyes and inhaled the air of his childhood home one more time. "Semper fi."

Then he walked off.

O'Malley watched him go, then nodded once. "Semper fi." He put his phone to his ear, and when the woman on the other end answered, he said, "Hey. You know that 'someday' trip to Bali you talked about? Yep. Just one last thing I gotta handle, then we're gone, so start packing. I'll call you when the job's done, we'll meet up at that spot by the river."

* * *

Lawson's call to Sister Margaret ran longer than intended, much like all of their conversations, as he found comfort in her voice. Outside the car, LMD Hill paced impatiently.

"Just so I know, should your father ask," Maggie was saying, "you don't quite know when you'll be back in the country?"

"That's right," he said. "I just – tell him, last minute thing, and I wish I could come up there, and say goodbye, but. Well." The hitch in his voice made him wince.

Silence.

Then Maggie said, "Not to intrude, David, but this isn't just a business trip, is it? Something is wrong."

He tapped his knee with his free hand. "I'm just going to be away for a while, that's all, Sister."

"Whatever you're facing," Maggie said gently, "God can help you. His arms are open. No sins are unforgivable. No life is unredeemable."

"Take those arms of God," he said quietly, "and wrap them around my father for me. Keep him safe, please, Sister. Where he is, in his head now, he's happy. I wish I could go back there and be with him. In time, I mean."

She sighed. "I'll sit with him every night," she said, "as _Boy Meets World._ "

He punched the call dead.

No time for scanning, zipping - Jones had gone old school with this info dump.

Inside the stuffed manila envelope was the lot, collected into papers and thumb drives. Film, photographs, summaries, timelines, names, data reports – everything, with a two-page summary Jessica Jones hammered out with careful focus despite downing three full tumblers of Maker's Mark in the process.

Smithie carried the envelope into the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

As she crossed into the specific entrance Jones had told her to use, a woman fitting Karen Page's description (and the photo Jess had shown her), wearing what Page said she would, walked past her carrying a strikingly similar manila envelope that was just as well stuffed. Karen went straight to a restroom, Smithie trailing behind several paces.

She went in, putting her envelope on the sink right next to Karen's, washing her hands, keeping on an eye on her own package with the small red dot inked at the top. She paid Karen no mind as she came out of a stall, washed her hands, picked up the envelope with the red dot and left.

Smithie washed her face, dried it, and left.

Sighing with relief, giddy with having pulled off what Jess had worry-teased as "your first solo run," Smithie ambled down the sidewalk in a happy trance, this person and that bumping into her. She didn't react with more than a surprised gasp when one bumped her especially hard, knocking her to the ground.

He looked down at her through the eyeholes of a ski mask, and said, "Sorry, kid. I'm so sorry."

Her last thought as the knife sliced down was that he had a curiously high voice for such a large man.

* * *

"Agent Madani, I'm just saying she's done enough. Been through enough." Drew murmured, staring at Jessica across the room. Eddy Costa was sitting next to Jones, not touching her, simply poised like a medieval gargoyle in assurance of his presence and honor of her grief. Jones had her head in her hands, fingers plowed into her hair. Her back was hunched, and she convulsed at times as she choked back sobs. "She can't take one more hit from these sadistic monsters."

"I don't think she's better off," Madani murmured, nodding at Jones, "if we just leave her like that. I know a little something about it."

Not quite catching the Fed's subtext, Drew turned her voice harsh. "Dinah, just keep out of my way and let me finish it. Me. They've almost broken her."

"What are you suggesting?" Madani answered in the same low tones.

"You keep her, and I go. Ms. Page confirmed she has the package, I assume she's working on it now. And you have the same package Page got." Drew swung around on her feet to put herself in the path of Dinah Madani's steady appraising gaze at Jones, causing the federal agent to huff and refocus on her. "I can find Rebecca, I can get Rebecca, while you line up the warrants and Page writes her story. Tomorrow this is over. That means someone better find that girl tonight, before she's worth nothing more to them."

Madani ducked her head, pursing her lips.

"Dinah, we both know you can _detain_ her as a federal material witness, refuse to let her leave the building. Do it. Do it and I'll bring you Rebecca and I'll toss in Lawson's head on a platter, if you like." She ground her jaw, folding her arms, and reset herself. "But I'll be damned if I'm letting Jones walk out of here in this condition. After Smithie, Jess'll get herself killed and likely be glad about it."

Dinah didn't answer. She brushed by Jessica Drew – deliberately bumping her shoulder, causing the spider to smile despite herself – and went to Jessica Jones. Crouching down in front of her, she stared, deep brown eyes wide open and ready to be read for assurance of sincerity.

"Not long ago," she said, keeping her voice low so only the two Jessicas and Costa could hear, "my friend and partner was killed by someone I thought cared for me. Someone I'd drank with, cared for, slept with."

Jones nodded, her lashes stuck together with the tears that were shining out of her eyes.

As if she hadn't put it plainly enough, Madani said forcefully, slowly, "I was fucking the man who killed my friend and partner and never saw it coming, let alone did I stop it. You know what they'd say if I was the man, and that asshole was the woman? That she was a bitch. You know what they say about the situation as it really did happen, where the man did the killing and the woman was fooled? That I'm a bitch." She shrugged. "The man got to be 'oh, that's what he does.' Looking for blame, it went to me."

Jones stared, then nodded once.

"Nothing I could or can do about them thinking that way." Dinah Madani stood. "When I could do something about him, though, I did. I went out and with the help of a good friend –" she glanced at Drew "— I made that prick pay. It's why I'm able to get out of bed and go to work every morning."

"She's right, Drew," said Jones, taking her feet. "I need to do this. This has to wrap up with me in the fight, whatever you think of that."

"I bloody well hate it." The Englishwoman frowned but muttered. "But I understand."

The federal agent stepped back.

"Go home, both of you," Madani called out, her voice loud enough now that the roomful of agents milling around could hear her.

"You have my medkit?" Drew whispered, tapping the right thigh pocket on her tac trousers.

"I'll call downstairs and you can pick it up on the way out," Dinah murmured. "They kept it because of the scalpel."

"Good. I never leave home without it."

Madani nodded. "The minute you have a location you call me."

"Sure," Jones said. "We'll send out for pizza right after that, it'll be a party."

* * *

"Hey, O'Malley." The man with a cinder block chest stepped back from O'Malley's driver-side window, looking over his car. Steam gushed from under the hood, the frame bent hard against the bridge's cement stand. "Sorry about this, really am."

"Frank Castle?" O'Malley wheezed. The driver's wheel was hard pressed into his chest. "I thought you were dead!"

"I know." Castle grunted. He looked into the darkening night sky, then back at his rental. "Put a bigger dent in that front bumper than I should have," he said. "Was gonna burn it out when I'm done anyway, but still, I'm losing my touch behind the wheel."

"What the –" a fit of coughs seized Gunny's chest.

"Would'a – should'a – done this, before you took out that poor kid on the sidewalk," he said, glancing both ways, then back to the Hudson. O'Malley must have chosen this particular spot for its infrequent traffic. "Thing is, I was just watching you when you killed her, didn't have a plan for anything like this. I try to keep my exposure to things that threaten Madani or Karen. But I couldn't let it go."

"I got no beef with –" the coughs took away the rest of his sentence again.

Frank sighed. "It's Lawson, I know. But you're Lawson's second. So …." He pulled the pistol from his pocket, screwing on a noise suppressor. "Sorry to leave you for your girl to find like this, but I gotta make it quick," Castle said. "Got something to follow up with."

The crack of the pistol was stunning, even with the noise suppressor. Frank looked at the smoke coming from the barrel and muttered, "Don't know why they keep calling these things 'silencers.'"

Jessica Drew tossed the car keys casually through the driver's window, onto the seat, then tugged primly at the grey, heavy duty SAS sweater she'd fitted over a flak jacket, running her fingers along the hem of the sweater to even it out over her black tac trousers.

 _Brits_ , Jones thought, but her hidden smile was affectionate as she slung herself out of the passenger side. She slouched her shoulders under her over-sized black leather jacket, her baggy tee-shirt half-tucked into threadbare-jeans.

For her part, Drew was scouring the darkness behind them. She couldn't shake the feeling someone had followed them, yet she saw no one there.

"So," Drew's eyes narrowed as she turned to their target building. "Right address? Looks the same as what pulled up on your phone."

"Yeah." Jones had in fact just been double-checking the profile of the five-story structure against what she'd Googled. She pocketed the cell and gazed to the top. "They gotta be thinking of exiting up, not out. This is the only 'abandoned' building along this stretch of the Hudson with a damn heliport on top." She pointed at the sixth story building nearby. "Remember, that one doesn't have one. And it's the wrong address anyway."

"Whereas ours is also likely full of the rest of a shit-load of guns and explosives. You're sure you're good to go?"

"That's Rebecca in there," Jones muttered.

Drew gave a crisp nod. "Any last thoughts on our plan?"

"Told you, too tired to plan," Jones said. "Time to keep it simple."

"So, it's simply what you suggested a minute ago?"

"Right."

"Right, then!" Drew snapped her chin up and down hard once. "Let's go in and just fuck shit up."

* * *

Note: As is standard to a season, this is a story in 13 episodes. The last will post soon after it's been proofed. Hope someone is enjoying this!


	13. Ep 13: AKA I Am The Fire

**JESSICA JONES SEASON 2.5: GIMME SHELTER**

 **Ep. 13: AKA I Am The Fire**

* * *

Dinah Madani fumbled for her phone. Not having slept more than four hours at one time in two months didn't help her get hold of it quickly, nor did the fact the sedan she sat in was racing through pretty tight streets and taking tighter turns.

When she had it, she noted the time with a growl, then pressed the phone to her ear hard enough to hear over the sirens in front of and behind her. "What?"

She sat up straighter, managing her third glance at her watch in the past two minutes, calculating in her head how soon they'd reach the building the drones had seen the Jessicas enter.

Then she almost dropped the phone.

"She did _what?_ How? Yes, I _know_ she has powers, I just …." Dinah folded her palm over her eyes and rubbed hard. "We had thirteen highly trained security –"

The phone swiveled in her hand with another sharp turn; rubber squealing, her shoulder slammed against the window.

She shoved back with a growl. "Okay. No idea at all where she's going or who she's talked to? Oh, we _do_ know that much, do we? Thank God for that much. So who'd she talk to?"

She frowned. "Who the hell is Brett Mahoney?"

In the back seat, unseen, Eddy Costa smiled.

* * *

Jones kicked in the door shouting, "Land Shark, motherfuckers!" and rolled into a ball under the hail of gunfire. _Mostly_ under – as she felt her ribs mule-kicked a couple times she was glad for the flak jacket Drew insisted she wear.

Her momentum put her on her feet, sliding, sending her bladed shoulder directly into a Watchdogs' chin. She didn't pause to enjoy the satisfaction of hearing the _crack-crunch_ sequence. Her fist – _yeah, fist, fuck it and YOLO_ – found another's throat. She pulled his body around in front of herself and let that take the next round of shots instead of her armored ribs.

 _All 'Dogs,_ her mind registered, taking in their clump-clump order of battle. No spreading out, no time taken – perfect. Her kick-slosh-slug-smash version of street fighting went full metal, bunch by bunch, slapping foreheads, blading throats, edge-fisting one base of the skull after another.

* * *

They were burning up berm, kicking up dirt and grass behind them, as the driver shouted back to Madani, "Almost there!"

"Wait, what?" Dinah had one finger plugging up an ear, the phone pressed so hard against the other the side of her face was going red. Granted, it may have been more than the phone. Her entire face was going red.

"Who? Who the hell _else_ would she have called? What?"

Costa had his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Dinah flung her phone to the floor, turned, grabbed his tie, and yanked his face up.

"What," she said, "is a _Hellcat?"_

* * *

Drew had gone in high. Her boots took out a second-floor window and she had sailed well over the floor before the cord she swung on snapped. The Watchdogs' bullets flew wildly useless around the room – apart from friendly fire taking down two of their own.

She landed with a three-quarters spin, two ankles and her strong left wrist supporting her before launching her through a series of balletic kicks, slaps, smacks, and a deft duck-and-weave that let two of the thugs slug themselves out simultaneously.

And then it was all knees and elbows, head-butts and chin-snaps, one elegant turn after another, a charge here, an aikido turn-and-redirect there, as Jessica kept it all close-quarters, putting six, eight, eleven men down moaning and useless, or completely unconscious, to the floor.

She stopped a spin facing the final man leveling a light-weight rifle-cannon, pure Hydra-tech, at her stomach. He grimaced, raising the rifle and smacking it with his wrist. Something _clicked_ and the rifle purred with a lethal _whirr_ sound.

She made to jump him before he could lower it again. Her leg gave out from under her and she landed in a heap. She felt blood soaking through her trousers at one thigh, looking up to see the barrel of the gun lower to aim at her face.

She smiled at him.

* * *

"You're hearing that, right?" the plainclothes officer had snapped at Lawson, pointing one floor down, when Drew had crashed through the window.

Lawson turned slowly and stared. "Just so I'm clear, lieutenant, you're asking me if I'm deaf or not?"

"They got half the fucking precinct on lock-down," the cop fumed. "The other half on stand-still, and every goddamn Fed in New York is heading this way. I'm out, boss."

"There is no out!" Lawson snapped, seizing the cop by the lapels hard enough to send his badge flying off the jacket pocket it had been clipped to. Lawson swept his legs wobbly and spun him to the floor. "There is up and there is down but there is no out!"

The cop flew back up at him only to have his jaw cracked with a pistol butt. He'd barely landed back on the hardwood before Lawson smashed his nose with a well-placed kick.

Lawson whirled, facing the two police officers left on his team. "I've got evacuation coming right now. I've got money waiting in Ukraine. And I got plans to rebuild. Now …." He racked the slide and aimed. "Who wants to be rich and who wants to die?"

They stared back sullenly.

* * *

The pheromone blast that had followed Jessica's smile held him in place just long enough.

His finger had paused one critical second, then another in shock at Drew's high-pitched screech, and in the next he was wrapped in a flood of blue-hot electric tendrils sprung from her clawed hands. She waved him through the air, then slammed him against the wall, limp-crawling toward him while looking around.

Boxes. Crates. Everything marked with Hydra's octopus, or the eagle of S.H.I.E.L.D., or one of a few more arcane logos.

She looked to where the would-be shooter had fought back up to his fours. She flicked a finger, sending a little ball of blue flaming web to smack his chin up, and pointed at him.

"Where is Rebecca Cross? Lie and you fry."

"Upstairs," he panted. "Kid's upstairs."

She pulled her cell phone but didn't have to call. Jones was running up the stairs behind her.

"Got it," Jones said, ducking onto the floor, one hand braced to pull herself back into the stairwell. "Let's – Drew? Drew, are you –"

The spider curled into a ball.

* * *

Lawson stared through the open, steel-bar window high up on the wall, certain he could make out the lights of helicopters in a holding pattern some distance away.

"Commander!" he snapped over his shoulder. He lowered his voice, regaining control. "If they – no, _when_ they get to this floor – kill those two bitches."

LMD Hill slid from leaning against the wall, adjusted her headset, and began pacing toward the stairwell. "My pleasure," she smiled.

Lawson looked at the cops again. "You know what? Time to cut our losses by cutting our losers."

Two quick shots, both to the face, kicked each body to the floor.

"You were right, Beckwith," Lawson said, turning to face the hulking man to his left. "Turns out you Watchdogs are the only real patriots left."

He walked slowly, heedless of the mayhem below. He walked with a reaper's face. He walked until he stood, staring down at the terrified eighteen-year-old girl huddled in the corner of her tiger cage, hugging herself, tears streaming down her face.

"Sorry, Rebecca." He aimed.

And he would have pulled the trigger if she hadn't spat at him, saying evenly, "Go ahead. You get to live with it."

His hand shook.

He lowered the gun and coughed, not looking back at the Watchdog. "No sense losing any leverage until necessary," he said. "Is it me or did it get quiet down there?"

Turning, he motioned for Beckwith to follow as he went to the stairwell. "Hill, you're done and loose when those two freaks down there are dead."

"Copy that."

"But if there's time, finish that one. Otherwise, leave her to the fire."

"No problem, sir," she said.

She watched them head up to the fourth floor before she went to a huge steel container in the corner and unlocked the latch, and something heavy moved inside. "Sssshhhhh," she whispered through the crack. "When I call you, all right?"

* * *

Jessica ran her left hand over Drew's clothing, looking for the medkit. "Tell me you brought it, tell me you brought it, tell me you brought –"

 _Yes!_ Jones felt the kit in Drew's right thigh pad pocket, thanking every lucky star in the sky the bullet had gone through the _other_ thigh pocket. She yanked the kit free, but her reward was a fresh well of dark red blood flooded over the spider's wounded leg. She leaned forward again, pressing down on the wound, sweat coating her face.

The blood pounding in her head drowned out enough sound that it was only when she saw a flash of yellow in the corner of her eyes that she reacted, twisting her body without quite letting go of the pressure on Drew's thigh. Her vision tunneled onto the sight of Hellcat yanking off her mask and holding it at her side, Trish's eyes glowing in the nearby fire and turning up slightly as a diminutive costumed figure spun down from the ceiling to a three-point landing, then stood shakily.

"What are you doing out of – out _here?_ " Jones yelled at Mattie.

The girl paced toward Drew wearing jeans, sneakers, a tee-shirt, that Jess had bought for her earlier, gesturing at the fallen all around them. "These fuckers lied to me," she said. "About you. Tried to turn me. Then turned around and handed me over to –" she screwed her mouth tight, then unwound. "This is my fight, too." She fell to her knees, pulling the medkit from Jones' hand. "And this is my hero, here."

"Get me out of here," a Watchdog moaned, coming conscious and rolling to his side.

"Shut up," Jones muttered.

"Jess," Trish said. "We got this."

"Those are guns," the 'Dog shouted. "Just guns, damn it." Jess glanced to where he was staring: rows of boxes lining the wall. _Yeah, and - oh. Oh, shit!_

She turned back to her sister.

"You _got_ this?" Jones said incredulously. "We gotta get this bleeding under control. But we also have _got_ to get that bullet out. I mean if her healing is faster than mine, she could close over it, and that means infection. But if it's _not_ faster, then she could bleed out, and that means …." She bit her lip. "Somebody's got to hold the pressure while someone else cleans and closes –"

Mattie murmured, voice shaking, "You sew a lot, Ms. Jones? Because I do."

Jones didn't answer. She was staring at the boxes.

Drew's fist clasped hers. "They have it in hand," she said weakly.

"Hey," Jess put her palm over Drew's forehead. "Didn't know you were awake again. Yeah, stick with us, we're gonna fix this. Me and Mattie, right?" She forced a smile Franklin's way, received with a determined nod.

"No," Drew smiled. "Mattie and your sister."

"Jesus," Jones huffed. "You _knew_?"

"Go get Rebecca," Drew answered.

Yellow flashed past her. Jones looked back up, stopping as her eyes settled into Hellcat's even gaze back from a crouch by the wounded thigh.

"Okay, Trish," Jess said, "just keep pressure right here." She guided her hand to where her own had been, changing out with her to keep the blood loss down.

Drew flinched, but didn't make a sound. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and Jones was shocked by the contrast with her usual laser focus. If anyone had laser eyes, she realized, it would have been Drew.

She looked over to where Mattie had opened the kit.

Jones heard sirens in the distance, rapidly coming near. "You'll do great," she told the girl. She managed a smile. "Way better than I can."

"Yeah," Mattie said, eyeing a scalpel in the firelight. "I know."

"But be sure to get the fragments. Not just the bullet mass, get every fragment you can."

Jones looked at the Watchdog, staring back, and gave him a single nod. "Yeah," she said. "I get it."

Leaning back toward Mattie, she said, "Just be ready to move her fast, 'k, Mattie, minute the cops come in, because –"

An arctic wind blasted her several feet to one side. A basketball-sized sphere of blue swirled into the form of Daimon Hellstrom, but then stumbled as he crashed to all fours. He crawled toward Trish, forcing his way unsteadily to his feet along the way.

"Daimon, what –"

"Long … way," he panted, squeezing his stomach. "Energy almost gone now." His eyes flew open. "I saw him. Thanos. He's coming. The Asgardians, he …."

Hellstrom fell again to his knees, happening to land facing Jessica Drew. His head jerked up and he took in everything – _everything –_ around himself, then nodded once, raised his palms, and with sweat pouring from his face, projected a half moon of glowing red energy around himself, Trish, and the fallen spider. He looked around wildly, as if expecting an assault, still obviously unclear of what he'd literally stumbled into when he homed in on Hellcat.

He stared back at Jessica, face pale and soaked in sweat, his exertion obvious. "I've just enough juice left, I can hold this for a while and protect them from anything south of God Himself," he told her. "If there's something you still need to do, please do it fast."

"Jones!" Drew chuckled, then coughed. "Damn it, go get your girl."

Red and blues lights rode a wind of sirens to fill the space around them.

Fighting the purple mix this made in her head, Jess looked over to see her sister nod at her once.

"Go be the hero you've always been."

* * *

Beckwith was in good shape but had trouble keeping up as Lawson double- and triple-timed his way up through the stairwell and out onto the roof.

"I thought my ride was ready to go?" Lawson asked him, pacing toward the helipad.

"Janson's the only one qualified to fly it, he's got the stick. On his way here, now." Beckwith swallowed, shifting from foot to foot. "I swear, man, he's on his way."

"He's not the only one." Lawson stood at the lip of the roof, staring down at a tide of lights, ears pinned back from a wave of sirens. He glanced at Beckwith. "You're sounding nervous. Try not to do that, makes me wonder what you'd do in a pinch. If you got pinched."

Before the Watchdog could answer, Lawson turned and snapped. "You got the hot button? Blow the charges _now_. Burn this fucking place to the ground, then throw some freak flags around so the press knows who to blame for whatever tech survives. Either of those bitches survives, they'll take the heat."

"And that girl?"

"That cage is going down with this building, you idiot. Stop sounding worried, you're making me worry. About you."

* * *

Three steps from the door, Dinah Madani snapped _answer_ on her cell and heard boots falling fast on stairs in the background, a slender strong shoulder slamming from wall to wall, a woman alternating between " _Jesus!_ " and " _Fuck!_ " each time.

"Jones? What the hell –"

"Send in _minimum_ , in and out. Drew's down, Mattie's got her on the second floor."

"Jessica, we're going in full –"

"Building's wired. Second floor is Jess and Mattie, third floor is Rebecca and Trish and some – _fuck!_ – wizard or something. Just get 'em, get the fuck out! Nothing on – _Jesus!_ – the fourth floor, just get out!"

"What about Rebecca?"

The line went dead.

* * *

Jones stuffed her cell in her jeans as she slid onto the fourth floor.

LMD Hill faced her, taking a loose martial arts stance.

Hill smiled. "Freak."

Jess tilted her chin up and down. "Fembot."

She glanced to the side. Rebecca Cross was in a cage.

* * *

"Minimum, hell," Dinah muttered, but it did change her plan in one way, as she quickly amended her orders into her head mike, patched through to her team.

Three dozen heavily armed agents from six agencies poured through the door. It was short work dragging out the bodies, lifting out the wounded, and there was extra care shuffling a now-unconscious Jessica Drew down the stairs and outside. Madani only got that done after a brief standoff outside Hellstrom's bubble that ended when Mattie nodded at Hellcat, who nodded in turn at Daimon. He sagged into himself, fainting as the bubble shrank into him.

Several agents went to them immediately as others finished bundling unconscious Watchdogs off the floor.

She braced Costa with her hand as he turned toward the stairwell.

"I said stay off the fourth floor."

"I will if you will."

She sighed. "No, you won't."

He grinned and began moving. The bullet that smashed his hip came up at a sharp angle as the Watchdog on the floor screamed, "Fuckin' freak lover."

Dinah's shot took the 'Dog's head off.

* * *

A cage.

People often assumed they had seen Jessica Jones angry. What most had seen was snarky, sarcastic, sullen, salty, spitty, spiteful. When Jess got angry, truly angry, she was a clean steel nail with a dry ice soul.

Purple haze. _Jess-i-caaaa –_

She shut Kilgrave down with sheer fury and the image of Rebecca Cross huddled in the corner of a cage.

Her mind drained all color from the haze, leaving her with nothing but chill crystal clarity.

She didn't run at Hill. She prowled at a panther's pace with a tigress stride. She rolled her knuckles in each palm, flexed her hands, did it a second time, then let her arms fall to her sides, slightly out from the hips.

Shit blew up.

It blew up beneath her, blew up all around her, but she didn't flinch.

Beams groaned, falling to the floor, and she never looked away. The fire faded from around her.

Now, it was in her.

She was the fire.

Hill pulled a long blade from a sheath on her thigh. "You're not getting past me, Jones."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." They circled. "You ever fight one of me? You know. Freak and all that shit?"

Hill slashed. Jess didn't bother leaning back from the feint. "What's your point?" the LMD asked.

Something else blew up, this time below them. Jessica began sweating from the heat.

"You haven't, have you? And they don't give you enough strength to give away you're not human, right?" Another slash, this one close enough Jess side-stepped and popped Hill's wrist aside – hard enough she heard the bones snap. "Like that?"

Hill switched the blade to her other hand, her face draining.

"Oh, but you feel pain?" Jessica smiled brightly. "Good."

The next explosion rocked their floor, sending them both flying over it on their stomachs.

* * *

Beckwith stared down below.

"Relax, son," Lawson chuckled. "Ignore the cop choppers, now, and –" he pointed in the distance. "See that light configuration there? That'll be our ride out of here. Hill's a robot but she's a good soldier. She'll go down with this ship while we make our way to a new one." He paced toward him. "And after that, a clean beginning."

He sighed and put the bullet directly at the base of Beckwith's skull, watching him tumble the four stories down to the ground.

"Sorry, 'Dog," he said sarcastically. "But at this point, I think I need to start at the beginning."

* * *

Hill scrambled to her feet, scooping up her knife, waving it through the smoke. "Kitty! Now!" she shouted. The door to the steel crate could be heard creaking open.

She made out Jessica's face suddenly near and would've swung with the knife faster if the odd smile on Jess' face hadn't puzzled her.

Not that it would have been fast enough.

The lead pipe Jones swung was a foot thick. She'd ripped it from the wall with the same strength she now used to smash the LMD's head into a mash of wire. She kept smashing until she struck so hard the pipe bounced from her hand.

Red-and-blue lights from outside tumbled through the barred window above, the glass windows below, making a purple soup of the acrid haze burning her nostrils with every breath, stinging her eyes raw.

 _Birch Street ... Higgins -_

Blinking in the smoke, she heard Rebecca coughing. Stumbling toward the sound, she looked up to see a four-hundred-pound cat striding toward her, pausing only to flex the jaws that boasted a foot long serrated saber-tooth on each side. The beast roared and leaped at her, jaws gaping.

* * *

Dinah had Eddy down, outside, medics swarming over him while he cussed about still being able to fight. She was turning to go back in when another series of explosions turned the first floor into flame.

She tapped into her comms and said, "Connect me with the choppers, we'll definitely gonna need a roof evac." She was turning, habitually taking in everything around her, trying to keep tabs, and tried to be reassuring when she blocked Mattie Franklin from her run toward the building, some of the blood on Dinah's shirt smearing onto the girl's face.

"Damn it, I can get up there, I can help –"

"You can keep protecting Drew for me and not confuse my guys in the sky while they get Rebecca out. Look." Madani pointed where the chopper lights were moving in. "Trust Jessica, she'll get her to the roof."

Dinah looked down at Jessica Drew, who was just stirring again, and Daimon Hellstrom, who was still out. Puzzled, she looked past and around them.

"Mattie?" Madani began. "Um … where's …."

* * *

The saber-toothed tiger slammed to the floor and reeled back into the clouds of smoke like a fish on a hook.

Jessica went to her hands and knees, fast crawling through the haze until she reached the cage. Somewhere in the smoke, she heard the sounds of a cat-fight from Hell.

"Back!" she shouted. The iron bars screamed as she yanked them apart.

Rebecca launched between them and into her lap, the two rolling over the floor twice, before they wound up facing each other on their knees, Jess holding her face.

"I'm Jessica Jones."

"Yeah," Rebecca nodded. "I figured."

A death rattle sounded only a few paces away, and both turned as a side of the wall blew out, smoke vacuuming through it. Both turned to look in the opposite direction from which the smoke had been cleared.

Hellcat stood above the dead predator. Her hip was cocked, feet braced, shoulders square, claws still extended and held wide of her hips, blood dripping. She flinched, and they drew back. A sharper whine ripped the grappling hook out of the saber-tooth's shanks, drawing it around and through the barred window Trish had used for leverage. The hook folded, and slid back into her body armor.

"Finish it," Hellcat said, hips swiveling with her feline stride toward them. "I've got her."

"If it's okay with her." Jess nodded but turned back to Rebecca. "Do you trust me?"

"Sure," she smiled. "You're Jessica Jones."

* * *

The _whoosh_ swooped up and over the ledge as an aircraft rapidly shifted VSTOL engines to hover above and in front of Lawson.

"Great," Jessica said, watching the Quinjet come to a soft landing on the roof. "I know some people been looking for that."

"Ms. Jones," Lawson said, pausing before turning around. "I only wish I was surprised. You might want to stand back, or did you miss the size of the guns we had put on that baby?"

The ramp in the tail section began to lower.

She looked over his shoulder, where the guns of the ship had _not_ turned. "Yeah," she said. "That's the thing about expensive weapons. Ammo is a real bitch to keep in stock."

"We've already won, you know," Lawson said. "You know who gets the blame for this. Nothing you do here will change that. You freaks are done."

An explosion sounded. She heard something metal scythe through the air toward her and smacked it away with her fist. Lawson was already aiming at her when she turned, but she had turned running.

Two shots flew past her, one clipping at her hair. She fell and rolled, but he jumped over her lightly, the barrel aimed right at her face, as she snapped her knee up, angling his fall.

The gun dry-clicked as he went to his side, his elbow caught and bending oddly, the gun skittering away. Perhaps it was sheer will that let him push to his feet, then hold his good hand up toward the cockpit, indicating the pilot needed to stay put.

The bag had never left his shoulder.

"Just give me the laptop, Lawson."

He narrowed his eyes, measuring the distance to the ramp against her proximity. "Right. And then you take it – and me – to your pal Madani."

"Why?" She mocked a laugh, wiping a finger under her nose. "Hoskins. Lukin. Keaton. You. We both know it's a crap shoot what happens if anyone of you ever goes to court. _If._ Doubt there'd be a conviction. I'd just be handing you a nice book deal. A slot on WFRT as a talking head between two blondes."

"Why do you even want it then?"

She shrugged. "Bargaining tool. Maybe enough, we can at least put everything back to square one. Works for me." She nodded, adding sarcastically, "I'm sure that's logic you understand."

He laughed. "So, I give this laptop up and you just kill me instead?"

She shook her head once. "Murder's not how I do 'hero.' You put it on the ground in one piece, and you go catch your chopper. But if I have to come over there and take it, I don't know what kind of shape you'll be in after. Probably dead. And I don't do things that way. Unless you make me."

He stared and with obvious compulsion, an unstoppable curiosity, he asked, "How do you know this is even it?"

"Because it never leaves your side."

"Maybe I grabbed hold of something else this time."

"It wouldn't let you." Jess shook her head once, blowing hair free that had caught in her mouth. "Some things grab hold of _us,_ and they never let go unless we try very hard, and we only try that hard when lives are at stake. Like your plan. It became you." She held out her hand, palm down, and lowered it. "Just try …. Hard. For both our sakes."

Behind him, the Quinjet revved its VTOL engines like a nervous dog barking. Both Jessica and Lawson looked up to see a bevy of helicopters circling, lights sweeping the area.

"You can outrun them in the air." She turned and began pacing toward him. "But not me on the ground. Get on board now and you still have a chance. But you're not boarding that thing unless you leave the laptop."

He held up one palm, causing her to pause, then lowered the bag to his feet. A line of sweat ran across his brow and he groaned when he let go of the straps of the bag.

"Good." She nodded. "Now get out of Hell's Kitchen."

He turned and walk briskly, shoulders straightening, regaining his aura of command. Pausing back at the tail, just at the ramp, he stared at her a moment before shouting over the engine noise. He tapped his chest with the edge of his fist. "You got it here, Jones. You'd have made a fine Marine."

"Samuel Cross made a fine Marine," she said. "Frank Castle made a fine Marine. You, you're just another power-hungry prick."

He loped up the ramp which quickly closed behind him.

Jessica's hair – already a tangled mess from the air the engines had been blasting around the roof – now flew straight as a flag behind her head as the Quinjet lifted off, nosing up in a lazy circle like a shark, then shooting fast toward the Hudson.

A little bolt of flame pushing a shell arced sizzling through the sky from a nearby sixth-story roof, heading directly into the heat of the Quinjet's engines.

The explosion sent her reeling, rolling, and she caught herself flat on her face. Shaking her head, she stared at the fireball that crashed into the river, steam gushing, parts flying from secondary explosions.

Her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out, jacked the volume to the highest level to get past the ringing in her ears, and said, "Madani, what the actual fuck?"

A man answered. "Couldn't leave him able to go after Madani," the husky voice said. "I owe her. Any forensics they pull from the river will wrap that shot back to the shit he was selling in Hell's Kitchen." The line clicked off.

Jessica stood, walking to the laptop bag but looking at wreckage burning in the water.

A chopper with DHS markings buzzed overhead, the light scoping out the roof one more time before snapping off. It began to settle gently down.

The silver haze in her head dissipated to clarity and nothing – _no one's voice_ – replaced it. She knew he'd be back. But this time she'd be even more ready.

Lowering painfully down to a cross-legged squat, she hugged herself and stared into the sky.

* * *

[Diane Cummings – voice-over:]

… _two days since the bloody battle between so-called 'gifted' individuals and members of the patriot's militia known as the Watchdogs that destroyed an entire building in a warehouse district off the Hudson. Police sources have been mum about rumored links between that incident and a rash of arrest by NYPD Internal Affairs and federal authorities, and we have to remind you that those are merely unconfirmed rumors._

 _What we do know for certain is that after ADA Steven Keaton's moving speech yesterday, calling for all New Yorkers to come together to find solutions to the problems raised by the mutants' presence, we've seen his poll numbers rise sharply overnight. Now, we're hearing that with the formal endorsement by Senator Ori, Mayor – I mean, Mister – Keaton has seen three of his opponents drop from the contest, leaving him the clear front-runner._

 _In related news, Senator Richard Barstone's Homeland Security Committee released a statement denying that either it, or DHS, came into possession of a laptop computer owned by former Keaton attorney David Lawson, reported to be indisposed at this time due to a sudden illness._

 _Now, yesterday other stations reported that the laptop contained information in some way incriminating Mr. Keaton in political dirty tricks, but Sen. Barstone stated unequivocally that no such laptop exists, nor does any other evidence affecting the validity of the upcoming election._

 _In another and somewhat shocking story involving the increasingly troublesome issues surrounding the mutant communities, both the U.S. Attorney and the Manhattan District Attorney announced today that all charges have been dropped against super-powered private investigator Jessica Jones. The murder of reputed street-powered drug dealer Miranda Pritchett is currently listed as still under investigation. But in the matter of Mattie Franklin's disappearance, it's been announced that she was found being held under mysterious circumstances still under investigation, and freed by NYPD Detectives Eddy Costa and Brett Mahoney. Exclusive to WFRT, I can report that some are saying she was under the influence of power enhancement drugs when found._

 _And whatever her difficulties are, certainly, our thoughts and prayers are with her._

 _For WFRT, the only voice you can trust as news, that's the news tonight, and thank you for my warm welcome as your new anchorwoman. Tune in tonight for the premiere episode of_ Politics Today!, _hosted by WFRT's newest star, former congressional representative Reginald Halberstam._

"This is odd," Mattie Franklin said.

Rebecca had just entered the room. "Must be, you actually put your protein shake down."

Mattie made a face, then turned her laptop around on the bed. "Seriously, look at this," she went on, as Rebecca slid under her arm to be drawn in tightly. "Okay okay okay – you remember the news report a couple hours ago, right?"

Rebecca tilted her head up and stared at her. "I have not somehow acquired such total amnesia that I don't remember that or how you had to restrain me from going to burn down WFRT."

Mattie thumbed the video all the back to the start and kissed the top of her hair.

Rebecca watched as a slender blonde reporter from _The Bulletin,_ being interviewed on a rival station of WFRT's, took viewers through twenty minutes of photographs, videos, bullet-pointed (and attributed) facts, detailing the Keaton campaign's involvement with the two girls' disappearance. That was for starters. She walked through the money trail, hooking up the PFD, Gatespring Church, the Watchdogs, the Hydra-S.H.I.E.L.D. stolen merch market – everything right down to and revealing how and why Rev. Hoskins hadn't been heard from for a couple of days despite the high-profile events.

The interviewer actually gave a moment of silence to let it settle in before asking, "And how do you think this will affect the race, Ms. Page?"

"That's not for me to decide," she said. She turned and looked directly at the camera. "That's up to you."

"Yeah, I think I know how it turns out from there." Mattie shut the laptop lid and glanced idly around the room. "Lotta blank wall in this place. Plenty of room for photos."

Curling deeper into her hold, Rebecca looked up and smiled.

* * *

Jessica Jones had her fists jammed in the pockets of her jacket when the cab pulled up.

Jessica Drew was wrapping up a phone call as she slipped out, motioning to the driver to wait. "Yes, come on down," she murmured into the phone. "Thanks."

Drew reached into the cab and brought out a pet carriage, opening it to pull out a yellow Abyssinian. Smiling, she walked up to Jones. Her face seemed more luminous than the street lamps, even now at midnight.

"And here I was mad at you making me wait for a 'surprise'," Jones said, stroking the feline's head before Drew put the pet in her arms. Jones hugged the cat, ruffling her fur.

"Police found her at Smithie's place. Neighbors said she took her in, took care of her, after the …." Drew trailed off.

"After I forgot," Jess nodded. "But Smithie didn't."

"No," Drew sighed. "Smithie, she was –"

"She was a Defender. A hero. And I never told her."

Drew took Jess by the back of her head, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "She knew what you thought."

Jones found herself in her friend's arms, the two standing there with the cat purring in her own arms until she got her composure back. "Sorry," she said, wiping under her eyes.

"You okay?"

Jones nodded.

"Well, then. Best get that one to her girl," Drew said. "You have my number, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll use it," Drew ordered. "Don't make me drop in out of nowhere again." She made a clawed hand as if to hurl venom-blasts. Both women laughed.

Drew turned, heels clicking on the street until Jess called out softly as she pulled open the door to the cab.

"Hey?"

The spider turned.

Jones shifted on her feet, smiling ruefully. "Best partner I ever had."

Drew smiled.

"You've gotten taller since we met," she said and slid into the taxi.

Jones watched it go, then turned, looking up to where the Sokovian girl's window was glowing.

Her head jerked around as Oscar called out from the building's door. "Coming in?"

At her surprise, he pointed at the cat and added, "Drew just called me. Said you'd need help finding the little girl's place."

"Did she?" Jess said wryly, pacing toward him, stroking the pet's face. "She's gotten smarter since we met."

Two distinct breezes, curiously chilled, swept past her, seeming to rise up. She turned, looking into the shadows of the rooftops above. Jess tilted her chin up and down once, turned, and walked through the doors, the cat cradled in her arms.


End file.
